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Section. 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


BOOKS  BY  ARTHUR  RUHL 

Published  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


WHITE  NIGHTS  : and  Other  Russian  Im- 
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The  Jockey  Club  Hipodromo  at  Buenos  Aires  on  a Sunday  afternoon. 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


THE  CITIES,  THE  COUNTRIES,  AND  ESPE- 
CIALLY THE  PEOPLE  OF  SOUTH  AMERICA 


BY 

ARTHUR  RUHL 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 
1918 


Copyright,  1908,  by 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER’S  SONS 


Published  September,  1908 


AUTHOR’S  NOTE 

Chapters  I-IX  of  this  book  originally  appeared  as  a 
series  of  articles  in  “Collier’s”  under  the  general  title 
“The  Other  Americans.”  Chapters  X-XIII,  with  the 
exception  of  portions  of  the  last  two  chapters,  which 
were  printed  as  separate  articles  in  “Collier’s,”  were 
published  in  “Scribner’s  Magazine.”  The  author  is 
indebted  to  the  editors  of  these  publications  for  their 
courtesy  in  permitting  him  to  use  the  articles  in  their 
present  form. 


A.  R. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAQB 

I.  The  Other  Americans 1 

II.  Caracas  and  the  Venezuelans 8 

III.  The  Royal  Mail  and  Panama 29 

IV.  The  West  Coasters 48 

V.  The  Highest  Railroad  in  the  World  ...  56 

VI.  Lima  and  the  Peruvians  71 

VII.  Across  Lake  Titicaca  to  La  Paz 101 

VIII.  A Fourth  of  July  in  Bolivia 118 

IX.  The  Other  San  Francisco 134 

X.  Santiago:  The  Metropolis  of  the  Andes  . . 150 

XI.  Across  the  Cordilleras  in  Winter  ....  183 

XII.  The  City  of  Good  Airs 207 

XIII.  Rio  and  Brazil 254 

XIV.  Statistical  Appendix  . 301 


Index  . • 


317 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Jockey  Club  Hipodromo  at  Buenos  Aires  on  a Sunday 

afternoon Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

Cartoons  published  in  South  American  papers  at  the  time 

of  Mr.  Root’s  visit 6 


A typical  flower-covered  home  in  Caracas 12 

Playing  tennis  in  Caracas  12 

Venezuelan  schoolboys  at  the  baseball  ground 18 

U.  S.  quarantine  station  on  the  beach  at  Colon 38 

The  white  man’s  burden-carrier  bound  for  Panama  ...  38 

Hoisting  aboard  “the  beefsteak  of  to-morrow”  ....  48 

“For  nearly  two  thousand  miles  the  coast  is  as  bare  as  an 

Arizona  desert” 54 

“Lighters  with  freight  to  give  or  take” 54 

The  little  girls  of  Matucana  bearing  their  gifts  from  a 

church  festival 02 

A typical  mountain  town  in  one  of  the  transverse  valleys  of 

the  Peruvian  Andes 02 

At  the  summit  of  the  Oroya  Railroad,  15,005  feet  above  sea 

level 08 

Along  the  line  of  the  Oroya  Railroad  in  Peru 08 

The  monument  to  the  war  hero  of  Peru . 78 


ix 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING  PAGE 


The  central  plaza  at  Lima  and  the  cathedral  where  may  be 

seen  the  bones  of  Pizarro 78 

The  grandstand  at  the  Jockey  Club  track  in  Lima  ...  90 
Small  boys  betting  on  the  horses  at  the  Lima  race  track  . . 90 

In  the  plaza  at  Lima  during  the  Corpus  Christi  procession  . 90 
Mount  Misti  looking  down  from  its  nineteen  thousand  feet 

on  the  roofs  of  Arequipa 104 

The  Buried  Valley  in  the  desert  in  which  the  ancient  town 

of  Arequipa  lies 104 

Looking  across  the  central  plaza  at  Arequipa 110 

Gateway  leading  to  the  cathedral  entrance,  Arequipa  . .110 

President  Montes  and  his  escort  at  the  end  of  their  two- 
hundred-mile  drive  from  La  Paz  to  Oruro,  across  the 

Bolivian  Plateau 120 

President  Montes  and  the  Archbishop  just  after  turning  the 

first  shovelful  of  earth  on  the  new  railway 120 

Cavalrymen  of  the  Bolivian  Army  on  their  way  from  La 

Paz  to  Oruro 128 

The  roadstead  and  dry  docks  at  Valparaiso  from  one  of  the 

city’s  hills 138 

Looking  past  the  statue  of  Admiral  Prat  toward  the  landing 

stage  at  Valparaiso 138 

Nitrate  vats  at  an  “oficina”  in  the  north  of  Chile  ....  156 

The  railroad  station  at  Santiago 156 

A Corpus  Christi  procession  in  the  plaza  in  Santiago  . . . 180 

Juncal,  on  the  Chilian  side  at  the  end  of  the  railroad,  at  an 

altitude  of  about  7,800  feet 186 


x 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

The  natural  bridge  of  Puenta  del  Inca 186 

On  the  trail  from  Portillo  186 

Cranes  used  in  loading  and  unloading  ships  at  the  Buenos 

Aires  docks  212 

One  of  the  basins  in  the  Buenos  Aires  docks 212 

In  front  of  the  cathedral  during  Mr.  Root’s  visit  to  Buenos 

Aires 232 

The  Calle  Piedad,  Buenos  Aires 232 

The  Avenida  de  Mayo,  Buenos  Aires 232 

Cargadores  loading  coffee  at  Santos 260 

The  new  Avenida  Central  in  Rio 260 

The  Rua  Ouvidor,  the  principal  business  street  in  Rio  . . 268 
One  corner  of  the  Harbor  of  Rio 280 

Map  showing  route  taken  by  author . 1 


Map  showing  route  taken  by  author, 


CHAPTER  I 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

In  a novel  written  by  a lady  of  Buenos  Aires  and  en- 
joying considerable  popularity  at  the  present  moment 
in  the  Argentine,  the  heroine’s  father,  during  a visit  to 
Rome,  obtains  an  audience  with  the  Pope.  He  is  a 
Norwegian  explorer,  and  when  the  conversation  turns 
to  the  subject  of  his  family  he  explains  that  his  wife 
is  an  “American.” 

“Ah,  yes?”  smiles  the  Holy  Father,  “Brazil — 
Mexico — Chile?” 

“No,  your  Holiness,  from  the  Argentine  Republic.” 
This — to  us — ingenuous  use  of  a word  which  here  at 
home  is  considered  the  exclusive  property  of  those  liv- 
ing between  Maine  and  California,  Canada  and  the 
Gulf,  is  common  throughout  South  America.  Our 
Minister  at  Lima,  for  instance,  or  La  Paz  or  Santiago, 
is  spoken  of  not  as  the  “American  minister,”  but  as 
“el  Ministro  nor/e-americano.”  A Chilian  to  whom 
one  is  being  presented  for  the  first  time,  sympathizing 
with  one’s  struggles  with  his  native  tongue,  asks: 
“Ingles  6 norte-americano?”  Although  he  was  occa- 
sionally called  Chancellor  and  Premier,  and  now  and 
then  “el  estadista  yanki ” — an  adjective  used  as  we 

1 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


would  use  French  or  German  and  implying  all  re- 
spect— this  same  distinction  of  latitude  was  carefully 
made  even  for  “el  Ministro  worte-americano,”  the 
Hon.  Elihu  Root.  The  artless  hilarity  with  which  the 
average  American  receives  the  first  intimation  of  this 
point  of  view  is  very  typical  of  our  attitude  toward 
our  neighbors  on  the  south. 

It  has  been  our  pleasure  to  ignore  the  Other  Ameri- 
cans— to  know  nothing,  really,  of  what  they  or  their 
cities  are  like,  or  their  ambitions  and  problems.  I ran 
across  a friend  on  the  street  a day  or  two  after  I re- 
turned. “You  found  there  was  a place  down  there, 
did  you?  That’s  good.  I know  it’s  on  the  map  all 
right,  but  I never  could  believe  it  was  real.”  People 
have  assumed  that  there  was  such  a place — vaguely 
comic  and  bizarre,  inseparably  attached,  somehow,  to 
the  words  “fevers  and  revolutions.”  Now  and  again 
it  appears  in  our  fiction.  It  is  unfortunate — when  one 
recalls  how  many  of  our  ideas  of  actual  life  are  bor- 
rowed from  the  play  life  of  engaging  books — that 
almost  all  our  South  American  fiction  has  dealt  with 
the  eccentricities  of  the  little  republics  to  the  north. 

Argentina  is  not  at  all  like  Venezuela,  yet  those  who 
have  not  been  there  are  likely  to  interpret  it  in  terms 
of  “The  Dictator”  and  “Soldiers  of  Fortune.”  And 
true  as  “Cabbages  and  Kings”  maybe  to  the  palms  and 
sunshine  of  the  Caribbean,  it  has  little  more  rela- 
tion to  life  in  Buenos  Aires  than  Remington’s  cowboys 
have  to  Boston  or  Chicago.  While  to  peruse  one  of 

those  yarns,  humorously  illustrated,  and  inserted  from 

2 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


time  to  time  in  the  polite  magazines  by  way  of  paprika 
relief,  one  might  suppose  that  all  Latin- America  was  a 
sort  of  comic-opera  land  where  gigantic  young  “Anglo- 
Saxons”  with  blonde  hair  and  red  faces,  stalking 
through  narrow  streets  like  Gulliver  among  the  Lilli- 
putians, had  but  to  roar  “Americano”  to  make  presi- 
dents resign  and  sentries  drop  their  guns.  This  sort  of 
thing  makes  one  a little  weary  read  in  Chile,  for  in- 
stance, where  Americans  are  not  always  idolized  and  the 
gentleman  already  mentioned  may  become  excessively 
bored  when  he  hears  that  one  is  a North  American  and 
even  lift  his  shoulders  deprecatingly  as  if  to  say:  “Oh, 
what  a pity!  How  unfortunate  for  you!”  It  is  em- 
barrassing again,  in  the  Argentine,  for  instance,  after 
you  have  carefully  explained  to  your  host  that  we 
have  no  imperial  designs  on  South  America  whatever, 
to  have  him  toss  across  the  table-  one  of  our  barber- 
shop papers  with  a cartoon  depicting  Uncle  Sam  as  a 
gigantic  paterfamilias  spanking  a lot  of  little  brown 
babies,  or  the  Monroe  Doctrine  as  a hen  sitting  on  a 
batch  of  South  American  eggs,  while  the  Yankee  rooster 
crows  alongside:  “They’re  mine!”  It  often  seemed  to 
me  while  meeting  the  courtesy  of  our  South  American 
neighbors,  and  observing  the  almost  touching  faith 
which  the  majority  of  them  have  in  the  United  States, 
that  nowhere  more  than  in  our  attitude  toward  them 
do  we  show  that  crude  bumptiousness  which  we  gen- 
erally assume  is  to  be  found  only  in  some  absurd 
traveller’s  tales  of  the  States  or  caricatures  of  the  for- 
eign stage. 


3 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


If  the  line  which  your  eye  takes  looking  down  the  hill 
from  Fifth  Avenue  toward  Madison  Square  were  con- 
tinued far  enough  straight  south,  it  would  hit  South 
America  near  the  west  coast  of  Peru.  Practically  all 
of  the  continent  would  be  east  of  that  line — from  there 
to  Cape  St.  Roque  is  as  far  as  from  New  York  to  San 
Francisco;  from  Cartagena  in  the  Caribbean  to  Punta 
Arenas  in  Patagonia  is  as  far  as  from  Key  West  to  the 
North  Pole.  There  are  nearly  half  a million  more 
square  miles  within  those  extremes  than  in  all  of  North 
America — and  people  ask,  “What  kind  of  weather  do 
they  have  down  there!”  On  the  Fourth  of  July  in 
Bolivia  I saw  a new  railroad  opened  in  a whirling  snow- 
storm, and  two  mornings  afterward  the  thermometer 
on  the  hotel  porch  stood  within  four  degrees  of  zero;  a 
month  later  in  Rio,  in  more  or  less  the  same  latitude, 
one  wilted  in  a muggy  heat  as  oppressive  as  any  we 
have  in  the  dog-days  here  in  New  York.  No  more  can 
one  generalize  about  the  people  or  their  countries.  In 
Bahia,  on  the  Brazilian  coast,  probably  not  more  than 
one  man  out  of  ten  is  white;  in  Peruvian  towns,  in  a 
corresponding  latitude  on  the  west  coast,  a negro  is 
less  often  seen  than  in  Boston.  There  is  as  much  dif- 
ference between  the  lazy  lotus  Caribbean  coast  and 
Tierra  del  Fuego  as  between  Mandalay  and  the  Straits 
of  Kamchatka. 

One  generalization,  however,  can  be  made.  It  is  the 
fundamental  difference  between  the  ways  in  which  the 
two  continents  were,  so  to  speak,  born  and  bred. 
Speaking  in  generalities,  North  America  was  settled  by 

4 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


men  who  came  to  the  new  world  seeking  liberty;  South 
America  was  exploited  by  adventurers  hunting  for 
gold.  Our  colonists  cleared  land,  planted  fields,  and 
established  homes;  when  the  time  came  to  separate 
from  the  old  country  they  had  a stable  society,  an  ade- 
quate political  system  spontaneously  developed,  and 
a familiarity  with  self-government  that  had  been  pre- 
paring from  the  time  of  Magna  Charta.  The  Spanish 
and  Portuguese,  following  Peninsular  traditions,  entered 
the  new  lands  primarily  to  exploit  them.  The  civil- 
ization of  the  Incas,  for  instance — to  recall  the  most 
tragic  example — was  destroyed,  and  this  industrious, 
skilled  people — adapted  to  their  environment,  capable 
of  attaining  a level  we  only  can  guess  at,  once 
acquainted  with  the  civilization  of  Europe — anni- 
hilated. All  that  they  had  done  perished  with  them, 
and  the  new  owners  of  the  land  had  to  begin  at  the 
beginning. 

When  Bolivar  and  San  Martin  followed  the  lead  of 
Washington  and  Latin  America  threw  off  the  yoke  of 
Spain,  its  people  had  had  no  training  in  self-govern- 
ment, nor  even  in  useful  industry,  and  their  ideal  was 
still  the  antique  and  romantic  one  of  the  intrepid  war- 
rior and  successful  conqueror.  This  was  the  seed.  The 
harvest  has  been  reaped  all  these  years  in  the  revolu- 
tions which  a sit-tight  commercial  people  such  as  we 
find  it  so  hard  to  understand.  A continent  cannot  be 
plowed  and  resown  like  a cornfield.  Education,  im- 
migration, the  gradual  infusion  of  saner  ideas  and 
more  stable  blood — it  is  a long,  discouraging  task  that 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

earnest  Latin  Americans  of  to-day  are  wrestling  with, 
one  in  which  they  ought  to  have,  at  the  least,  our 
appreciation  and  sympathy. 

There  they  are,  these  different,  almost  forgotten 
cities,  down  below  the  southern  horizon,  beneath  their 
different  stars.  The  main  stream  of  modern  life,  stri- 
dent and  relentless,  flows  far  away — you  think  of  it 
down  there  as  of  something  left  behind,  over  the  shoul- 
der of  the  big  earth,  as  it  were,  as  you  think  of  the 
North  Star  and  the  Dipper.  Echoes  of  it  come  each 
morning  in  the  newspapers — vague  cables  from  Europe 
and  the  States,  letters  and  feuilletons  from  Paris  or 
Madrid;  the  name  of  one’s  banker  takes  one  back  to 
New  York  or  London,  the  locomotive  roaring  into  the 
station  is  a detached  bit  of  Germany  or  of  home.  But 
the  grip  of  the  big  world’s  life  is  not  felt,  its  restless, 
relentless  intellectuality,  its  worship  of  strength.  Peo- 
ple feel  rather  than  think — wear  the  clothes,  employ 
the  caterers,  read  the  poetry  and  shout  “Bis!  Bis!” 
over  the  operas  of  the  great  world  without  bothering 
themselves  with  its  problems. 

Side  by  side  are  the  new  and  the  old,  jostling  each 
other  and  blending  in  a way  they  never  have  even  in 
our  land  of  contrasts — the  old  older  than  our  oldest, 
the  newest  more  raw  and  cruder  than  our  new.  Over 
the  antique  civilization,  still  drowsing  on  under  the 
blazing  tropic  sun,  buried  away  in  the  thin,  cold  air  of 
the  Andes,  the  skirmishers  of  the  new  are  everywhere 
pushing — engineers,  promoters,  prospectors,  drum- 
mers from  Hamburg  and  Leeds  and  Manchester,  the 

6 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


Yankee  medicine  man.  Under  the  wilting  sunshine  of 
Brazil  the  pink  pills  of  our  New  England  landscape  re- 
appear in  lazy  Portuguese  as  the  Pilulas  Rosadas  para 
Pessoas  Pallidas;  down  the  west  coast,  on  walls  against 
which  Pizarro’s  men  in  armor  may  have  leaned,  is 
lifted  the  hopeful  finger  of  our  benevolent  Dr.  Mun- 
yon.  Through  windows  barred  just  as  they  were  barred 
in  the  days  when  the  splendid  viceroys  used  to  come 
out  from  Spain,  comes  the  busy  clatter  of  the  American 
sewing  machine;  in  mining  camps  buried  away  in  the 
Cordilleras  the  llama  drivers,  huddled  in  ponchos  about 
their  tiny  fires,  listen  to  the  phonograph  quavering 
through  the  wine-shop’s  open  door  out  into  the  cold 
moonlight. 


CHAPTER  II 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

W’y  seet  een  cheelly  Pearl  Estree’? 

Trahnslating  letters  all  ze  7 ay , 

W’en  o'er  zc  Caribbean  Sea 

I would  to  home  go  me  aliway? 

Fair  Mercedita  waits  for  me, 

So  w'y  op  here  one  must  estay 
Een  cheelly,  ogly  Pearl  Estree’? 

Porquef 

Across  ze  Caribbean  zen! 

To  see  ahgain  ze  beeg,  red  tiles : 

To  wahtch  ze  leetle  soldier  men 
March  op  an’  down  een  crooked  files. 
Ah,  look!  Ze  moonlight  on  ze  sea! 

(Ees  seelver  pure — for  miles  an  miles!) 
An’  Mercedita  calls  to  me 
An’  smiles. 


But  not!  I cahnot  go,  you  see, 

{My  Government — I ahm  eets  foe) — 
I most  estay  een  Pearl  Estree’ — 

I’m  revolucionario! 

8 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

One  mont’  to  wait — a shor’  time — bah ! 

One  mont’  before  ze  fight  estart. 

One  mont ’ — no  Mercedita — ah! 

My  heart! 

— T.  R.  Ybarra,  “ The  Spanish-American  Export  Clerk." 

Caracas  is  one  of  the  few  Latin  American  capitals 
which  seem  at  first  to  live  up  to  the  traditions  of  the 
Caribbean  and  the  stories  we  print  in  our  magazines. 
From  the  moment  one  consults  steamship  agents  about 
going  to  Venezuela,  one  has  a delightful  feeling  of 
being  somehow  a conspirator  and  of  becoming  en- 
meshed in  a vague  intrigue  in  which  strange  and  pict- 
uresque things  are  about  to  happen.  Before  the  steam- 
ship man  will  even  sell  you  a ticket  you  must  get  a 
passport  and  have  the  Venezuelan  Consul  countersign 
it,  and  look  you  over  and  satisfy  himself  that  you  are 
not  a filibuster.  All  the  way  down  through  the  Carib- 
bean, with  the  flying-fish  sailing  away  from  the  ship’s 
bows  and  the  northern  stars  sinking  under  the  horizon 
and  the  breath  of  the  trades  growing  more  velvety  and 
moist,  and  the  yellow  seaweed  floating  in  the  blue 
water,  mystery  and  dark  innuendo  seem  to  exude  from 
the  very  deck  of  the  little  steamship. 

Such  tales  as  the  irreverent  young  purser  and  the 
mysterious  doctor  tell,  sotto  voce,  cynical,  of  graft,  plots 
and  prisons ! The  mere  gringo  feels  like  a cub  reporter 
at  the  office  of  a campaign  committee.  Even  the  cap- 
tain, who  has  sailed  up  and  down  this  path  for  thirty 
years  and  seen  it  all,  occasionally  drops  a sentence,  at 
which  smiles  show,  shoulders  lift,  and  the  two  dark 

9 


The  other  Americans 

conspirators  at  the  foot  of  one’s  table  look  up  quickly 
and  rattle  off  half  a dozen  phrases  in  Spanish.  All 
day  they  sit  in  the  smoking-room  and  conspire,  hov- 
ering over  their  half-emptied  glasses,  with  cigarettes 
made  of  black  tobacco  smouldering  in  their  long,  lean, 
smoke-stained  fingers,  whispering  by  the  hour.  The 
gossip  of  the  smoking-room,  from  drummers,  coffee 
and  tobacco  planters,  prospectors  and  engineers: 
“Forty  million  dollars — that’s  what  Castro’s  made 
out  of  it.  Sure — he  can’t  last  much  longer — he’s 
got  about  all  he  w*ants.  He’ll  be  beatin’  it  for  Paris 
pretty  soon  where  the  rest  of  ’em  all  went.  . . . 
Money?*  Is  there!  Talk  about  the  Klondike  or  the 
Transvaal  or — why,  you  can  go  up  the  Orinoco  in  a 
five-thousand-ton  steamer  and  there’s  your  iron  right 
on  the  surface — all  you  got  to  do  is  shovel  it  off  the 
bank — cocoa,  copra,  rubber.  . . . Ah,  she  was  a 
beauty.  That’s  no  lie.  He  saw  her  an’ — well — you 
know  the  rest.  They  gave  her  thirty  thousand  bolivars 
and  the  best  house  they  could  find  in  Caracas,  and  on 
his  birthday.  . . . Courts?  Hell — no!  That’s  where 
you  don't  go!  You’d  only  lose  an’  have  to  pay  the 
judges,  too.  It’s  cheaper  to  give  ’em  their  bit  before- 
hand and  get  it  settled  right.  Lawyers?  Sure  we  keep 
a lawyer,  but  only  to  tell  us  what  their  bally  laws  are, 
so  we  don’t  make  trouble  for  ourselves.  . . . Look  at 
that  flour-mill  at  La  Guayra — wouldn’t  it  make  you 
laugh?  They  can’t  make  flour  at  a profit  in  Venezuela 
when  they’ve  got  to  import  all  their  wheat  from  New 
Orleans.  The  Government’ll  just  put  up  that  mill  to 

in 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 


jolly  the  poor  people — they  won’t  have  to  pay  duty 
on  flour  because  the  Government  monopolies  don’t 
have  to  pay  import  duties,  and  then  they’ll  import 
flour  from  New  York  at  four-twenty-five  a barrel,  and 
sell  it  to  the  people  as  coming  from  the  flour-mill  at  the 
old  price.  Talk  about  graft — gee!  These  fellows  ’ud 
make  Philadelphia  look  like  amateurs.  ...  All  you 
got  to  do  is  to  run  out  into  the  Plaza,  wave  your  little 
flag  an’  yell  ‘Viva  la  revolucion!’  Follow  you?  Sure 
— why  not?  If  they  don’t  fight  with  you  the  Govern- 
ment’ll make  ’em  fight  for  it  and  won’t  pay  ’em,  either. 
With  you  they’re  sure  of  a chance  of  loot  and  plenty 
of  excitement  and  fun — sure.  Just  go  out  to-morrow 
morning  and  wave  your  little  flag.”  . . . "How  many 
more  years  of  school?”  the  captain  asked  one  night  of 
the  little  lad  who  was  returning  to  Caracas  for  vaca- 
tion. He  was  a pretty  little  fellow  with  a Conservative 
family  name.  The  present  government  is  Liberal. 
“Five  years,”  said  the  boy.  “Five  years  school,” 
rumbled  the  skipper,  screwing  his  eyes  up  in  one  of  his 
satyr-like  smiles:  “Five  years  politico,  then — fifteen 
years  in  prison  at  La  Guayra — no?”  And  everybody 
nodded  and  the  schoolboy  snapped  his  black  eyes,  and 
his  uncle,  sitting  beside  him,  about  to  lick  his  cigarette, 
stopped  and  licked  his  lips  instead  and  smiled,  too, 
though  in  a subtler,  sadder  way.  He  had  a right  to. 
He  had  been  in  the  La  Guayra  prison  once,  chained  by 
the  leg  to  another  man.  And  he  wasn’t  at  all  sure  that 
after  landing  in  the  morning  he  wouldn’t  be  invited  to 
call  on  the  prefect  and  be  clapped  into  jail  again. 

11 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

When,  after  a week  or  so  of  this,  the  stern  brown 
rampart  of  the  Venezuelan  coast  looms  through  the 
morning  mist,  climbing  up  and  up  eight  or  nine  thou- 
sand feet  from  the  fringe  of  surf  at  its  foot,  with  a 
theatre-curtain  yellow  and  terra-cotta  town  nicked 
into  the  baked  hillside,  and  a little  toy  fort  bristling 
overhead,  one  feels  that  whatever  happens  one  is  pres- 
ently to  be  “done ” and  done  interestingly.  The  languid 
sea  wind  dies  down,  the  hot  breath  from  the  town  puffs 
out  across  the  water.  While  you  study  the  yellow 
gashes  in  the  mountain’s  tawrny  flank — cuts  the  rail- 
road makes  in  climbing  aw’ay  up  over  the  summit  to 
the  capital — a launch  flying  a strange  flag  comes  off 
from  shore.  Your  papers  are  inspected,  you  are  in- 
spected, then  you  bake  in  the  vertical  sun  while  the 
scouts  go  ashore  to  telephone  about  you  up  to  Caracas, 
and  see  if  you  may  be  allowed  to  land.  You  feel  ex- 
actly like  a spy  or  an  absconding  bank  president — al- 
most as  though  you  wrere  an  alien  approaching  the  har- 
bor of  New  York.  If  they  don’t  like  your  name  or  the 
color  of  your  hair,  so  the  irreverent  purser  drawls  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  back  to  the  States  or  to  jail 
you  go.  That  was  what  had  happened  to  one  of  our 
passengers  the  last  time  he  had  come  down — nineteen 
days  in  prison  because  he  had  been  seen  talking  to  an 
ex-revolutionist  on  the  w’harf  in  Brooklyn.  Landed  at 
last,  the  porter  sharks  fed  with  all  the  money  left  in  his 
clothes,  each  passenger  must  sign  his  name  on  a slip  of 
paper  before  the  little  train  starts  for  Caracas.  Up  it 
climbs,  zigzagging  across  the  parched  flank  of  the 

12 


A typical  flower-covered  home  in  Caracas.  Playing  tennis  in  Caracas, 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

mountains,  till  the  baking  air  of  the  fever  port  has 
given  way  to  the  cooler  breath  of  the  upper  levels  and 
the  misty  blue  floor  of  the  Caribbean  stretches  out 
miles  below,  and  the  donkey  trains,  gray  with  trail 
dust,  creep  past.  Another  pause — are  we  held  up? 
No,  worse  luck — only  the  autograph  collector  again. 
And  then — after  days  of  tropic  seas,  after  passing  the 
sentries  and  the  fever-belted  shore  and  dizzily  creeping 
over  the  mountain  tops,  instead  of  finding  a jungle 
with  aborigines  living  in  mud  huts  and  eating  jerked 
beef,  you  roll  down  into  a frivolous  little  capital,  with  a 
pretty  tiled  plaza  and  monuments  and  beautiful  trees; 
where,  of  a morning,  over  the  coffee  of  which  they  are 
so  proud,  one  may  read  along  with  the  cable  despatches 
snatches  of  Montmartre  poetry  and  gossip  from  the 
boulevards,  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  play  tennis 
with  engaging  young  men  who  talk  across  the  net  in 
one’s  own  language  as  casually  as  in  French  or  their 
own,  and  in  the  evening  stroll  perhaps  with  the  crowd, 
round  the  statue  of  Bolivar  with  little  hooded  victorias 
twinkling  past  like  fire-flies,  and  the  band  playing 
things  out  of  “LaTosca”  and  “La  Boheme.”  It  seems 
almost  as  if  the  little  city  had  had  it  all  arranged  to 
make  her  charm  more  sure,  hidden  behind  these  seas 
and  mountains  and  passports  in  a sort  of  Spanish 
coquetry. 

Caracas  has  nearly  a hundred  thousand  people — 
counting  whites,  mestizos , negroes,  and  the  rest,  and  it 
lies  in  a beautiful  valley  three  thousand  feet  up  in  the 
air.  This  makes  its  climate  delightful  in  winter,  and  in 

13 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

summer  oppressive  only  for  those  who  are  able  to  go 
north  to  the  States  or  abroad.  It  is  built  of  thick  stone 
or  plaster  walls,  with  tile  roofs  and  sky-blue  courts, 
filled  with  flowers  and  vines.  Some  of  the  streets  are 
paved  with  asphalt,  the  others  with  cobble-stones,  and 
there  are  tramways  and  electric  lights,  and  the  whole 
is  spread  on  the  floor  of  a valley  with  mountains  rising 
up  mightily  all  round,  eight  or  nine  thousand  feet. 
There  is  nothing  prettier  in  all  South  America  than  the 
sight  of  it — looking  across  the  valley  from  some  shaded 
balcony  in  the  Paraiso,  toward  sunset,  with  the  sum- 
mits green  and  soft  with  timber,  the  flanks  bare  and 
gauntly  ribbed,  and  in  the  dry  season,  at  least,  colored 
curious  rusty  browns,  and  below  the  terra-cotta  roofs 
and  yellow  walls  of  the  town.  The  clouds  hang  round 
the  summits,  and  when  the  rains  begin,  they  almost 
always  have  a shawl  of  mist  thrown  across  their  shoul- 
ders, and  now  and  then  it  comes  drifting  down  into  the 
very  streets  of  the  town,  standing  out  as  compact  and 
white  against  the  brown  backgrounds  as  so  much 
whipped-egg  froth.  Toward  sunset  time,  the  level 
blaze  sweeps  straight  down  the  valley,  throwing  the 
ribbed,  wrinkled  flanks  into  high  lights  and  black 
shadows,  like  canvas  rocks  in  the  glare  of  a lime-light. 
The  summer  was  just  beginning  when  I was  in  Caracas, 
and  each  afternoon  before  the  sun  had  swung  round 
to  the  west  there  was  a shower  of  the  quick,  warm 
tropical  rain.  The  narrow  streets  would  be  rivers  in  a 
minute,  the  mountains  would  disappear,  then  pres- 
ently the  air  would  dry,  the  sky  resume  its  limpid  blue, 

14 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

and  down  the  length  of  the  valley  and  across  the  drip^ 
ping  city  would  blaze  the  searchlight  sun.  The  moun- 
tains turned  to  plush,  the  barren  rusty  flanks  softened 
into  browns  and  greens  so  velvety  that  the  mere  color 
seemed  to  have  a texture,  and  here  and  there  all  over 
it  shone  little  silver  lines — sudden  cascades  pouring 
down  the  rocks,  warm  and  steady,  miles  and  miles 
away. 

A distinguished  gringo  once  came  to  Caracas  by  way 
of  Honduras  and  Central  America.  He  had  cut  his 
way  through  swamps,  been  bitten  by  mosquitoes  and 
fleas,  and  suffered  from  fever,  and  when  he  saw  the 
plaza  and  the  people  and  the  band  playing  under  the 
electric  lamps  at  night,  he  called  Caracas  the  Paris  of 
South  America.  To  me,  after  seeing  Lima  and  Santiago 
and  Buenos  Aires  and  Rio,  Caracas  seemed  scarcely 
more  the  Paris  of  South  America  than  Pasadena  or 
Colorado  Springs  are  Parises  of  the  States ; but  it  was 
easy  enough  to  understand  the  distinguished  gringo’s 
point  of  view.  The  lamps  of  Paris  light  its  plaza;  its 
little  victorias  rattle  through  the  narrow  streets;  the 
newsboys  call  out  their  papers  with  long,  rippling, 
accented  cries  that  seem  an  echo  of  the  boulevards ; on 
the  benches  of  the  plaza,  shabby,  cynical  verse-makers 
scribble  decadent  rhymes  and  drowse  in  the  sun.  It 
goes  through  the  motions  in  many  little  superficial 
ways,  and  it  regards  these  motions  with  quite  as  much 
seriousness  as  though  they  were  the  real  thing.  They 
read  in  the  morning  papers  about  the  new  statue  of  de 
Musset  beside  the  Theatre  Francais  or  a couple  of  col- 

15 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


umns  of  impressionistic  description  of  the  art  of  Mile. 
Cleo  de  Merode — “Our  Lady  of  the  Smile  and  Dance” 
— with  as  much  interest  as  though  the  first  stood  in 
one  of  their  own  squares — alongside  their  statue  of 
Washington — and  as  though  the  lady  could  be  seen  at 
the  municipal  theatre  each  night  instead  of  the  bio- 
graph. And  it  is  with  the  conviction  and  self-absorp- 
tion of  the  true  boulevardier  that  they  write  about  the 
thunder  of  traffic  in  their  quiet  little  streets,  the  mag- 
nificence of  their  pretty  little  villas,  and  describe  the 
carriage  parade  in  the  Paraiso  as  though  that  little 
macadam  street  wTere  Hyde  Park  or  the  Champs- 
Elysees. 

The  Plaza  de  Bolivar  is  the  centre  of  the  town  and 
of  Venezuela,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  plaza  stands  the 
equestrian  statue  of  the  Liberator,  who,  after  freeing 
all  this  part  of  the  continent  from  Spain,  was  im- 
prisoned by  his  own  people  and  died  broken-hearted, 
in  exile,  with  the  wrords:  “I  have  plowed  in  the  sea.” 
Round  the  square  are  the  Government  Buildings,  the 
library  and  sleepy  old  university,  and  a cathedral 
whose  bell  whangs  out  every  quarter-hour,  and  leaves 
no  doubt  in  the  mind  of  every  stranger  who  tries  to 
sleep  in  the  hotel  near-by  that  Venezuela  is  still  domi- 
nated by  the  Church.  Across  the  end  of  the  square 
tinkle  the  little  toy  street-cars,  and  now  and  then  a 
hooded  victoria  slips  through,  the  top  drawn  like  a visor 
over  the  inside,  so  that  all  you  can  see  is  the  tip  of  a 
chin  or  bit  of  white  parasol.  It  is  not  pleasant  for  ladies 
to  appear  on  the  streets  unless  they  are  extremely  plain. 

1G 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

At  the  cathedral  corner,  under  a big  tree,  is  the  news- 
stand. There  are  several  newspapers  and  periodicals, 
and  some  little  humorous  sheets  full  of  crude  little 
drawings.  None  of  the  newspapers  has  exactly  free 
speech,  and  some  of  them  are,  as  it  were,  rented  from 
time  to  time  by  politicians  who  want  to  push  their 
campaign.  The  “Constitutional”  speaks  directly  for 
the  Government,  and  is  the  only  one  which  has  the  air 
of  real  stability  and  dignity. 

Some  of  the  most  characteristic  traits  of  the  Vene- 
zuelans— their  mixture  of  frivolousness  and  sentimen- 
tal melancholy,  their  impressionability,  their  fondness, 
common  to  Latin  Americans  and  particularly  those  of 
the  warmer  latitudes,  for  high-flown  and  flowery  de- 
scription— come  out  in  these  newspapers.  Almost 
always  there  are  sensations  de  voyage  from  some  trav- 
eller journeying  a few  miles  from  home,  discussions  of 
some  fine  academic  point  in  literature  or  speech, 
“communications”  in  which  some  fond  scribbler  en- 
deavors to  imprison  in  classical  prose  some  aspect  of 
his  native  town.  A charity  bazaar,  for  instance,  is  to  be 
held  at  one  of  the  more  pretentious  villas;  it  is  a nice 
house,  the  lady  is  nice,  too,  the  prospect  thrills  our 
gifted  friend  Rodriguez,  and  he  seizes  his  pen  and  ad- 
dresses “El  Constitucional.”  He  begins  at  the  begin- 
ning, thus:  “It  was  a gracious  afternoon,  one  of  those 
on  which  the  spirit  opens  itself  to  all  the  varied  and 
harmonious  accents  of  the  language  of  beauty — in  the 
atmosphere  wandered  vague  aromas,  indefinite  beau- 
ties beckoned  from  the  horizon,  and  the  day  wrapped 

17 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


itself  in  the  seductive  melancholy  of  its  last  adieu. 
. . .”  Follow,  after  a few  paragraphs,  specific  details 
— municipal  improvements  along  the  Paraiso,  the  new 
automobiles,  the  sight  of  children  playing  baseball ; 
then  the  lyre  is  struck  again:  “The  day  declines;  the 
afternoon  loses  its  pensive  attitude  of  the  enamored 
virgin — no  longer  is  there  light  on  the  hills  nor  vague 
glimmers  on  the  mountain  tops.  Faraway  sighs  seem 
to  come  to  the  ear,  airy  messengers  of  chaste  amours; 
the  shades  deepen,  innumerable  diamonds  begin  to 
sparkle  in  the  sky.  . . .”  Thus  we  are  brought  to  the 
house,  which  is  deftly  described  even  to  its  dimensions 
in  metres,  then  to  the  interior  constructed  “with  a 
visible  eloquence,  that  quid  divinum  which  gives  voice 
to  forms,  expression  to  lines,  life  to  details,  joy  to  art, 
and  grandeur  to  the  whole.”  Desirable  this  is,  but 
finer  yet  “that  spiritual  culture,  that  kindness  of  heart, 
that  firmness  and  character  and  elevation  of  soul  pos- 
sessed by  the  villa’s  mistress,  of  whom  it  might  truly 
be  said  that  she  passes  between  the  flowers  of  her  gar- 
den without  touching  them  with  the  hem  of  her  gar- 
ments.” And  so  on  for  two  newspaper  columns  signed 
with  the  contributor’s  name.  Happy  bourn  for  the 
“littery!”  Far  from  our  Park  Row,  where  the  im- 
passioned “communication”  is  tossed  into  the  waste- 
basket, and  the  copy-reader’s  shears  and  blue  pencil 
commit  continuous  murder! 

If  you  stop  to  listen  in  the  plaza,  at  almost  any  mo- 
ment of  the  day,  you  can  hear  somewhere  in  the  dis- 
tance shrill,  boyish  voices  crying  out  numbers  in  Span- 

18 


Venezuelan  schoolboys  at  the  baseball  ground. 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 


ish — “Dos  meet — queefentos — cmquenta” — long  drawn 
out,  melodious,  like  a phrase  of  a song.  They  are  the 
lottery-ticket  sellers,  perennials  of  the  street  in  almost 
all  Latin- American  towns.  In  Caracas,  when  I was 
there,  a new  national  lottery  concession  had  just  been 
granted  to  a Frenchman.  It  was  “for  the  good  of  the 
people,”  and  advertisements  represented  it  as  a horn 
of  plenty,  showering  money  down  into  the  hands  of  the 
delighted  populace  while  an  army  of  beaming  winners 
marched  toward  a rising  sun  with  money-bags  upon 
their  backs.  There  were  drawings  twice  a week,  and 
until  the  last  minute  news-venders  and  beggars  and 
little  barefoot  boys  were  tramping  the  sun-baked  side- 
walks all  over  town  with  strips  of  these  tickets  to  sell. 
There  were  sixteen  coupons  for  each  number,  and  one 
could  buy  them  separately  for  ten  cents  each  or  the 
whole  number  for  four  bolivars.  If  that  number  won  a 
prize,  the  winner  received  one-sixteenth  of  it  for  every 
one  of  the  coupons  he  held.  The  company’s  percent- 
age was  three  and  a third.  The  numbers  which  ex- 
perience had  proved  were  lucky  were  bought  up  by 
speculators,  at  whose  shops  certain  favorite  tickets 
could  always  be  found.  You  could  even  have  the 
lucky  number  reserved  for  you  for  the  next  drawing, 
just  as  you  would  go  to  Tyson’s  and  have  a seat  re- 
served on  the  aisle.  Some  six  thousand  tickets  could 
be  sold,  and  as  half-past  two,  the  hour  for  the  draw- 
ing, approached,  and  there  were  still  hundreds  of  them 
out,  the  boys  would  hurry  into  the  plaza,  waving  their 
strips  and  shouting  the  last  call.  It  was  just  siesta 

19 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


time,  when  the  plaza  lay  quiet  and  almost  deserted, 
baking  in  the  midday  glare,  and  from  my  room  I could 
hear  them  pattering  by  in  their  bare  feet  and  wailing, 
like  locusts  in  the  sun — ‘ ‘ La  ooZ-ti-ma  o-ra !”  “ Para  oy ! 
Numero  saysmeeZ-dos  cientos-ochentary-nueve ! La  ool- 
ti-ma  o-ra!”  The  Spanish  tongue  was  made  for  such 
cries.  One  really  got  almost  excited  and  the  little  raffle 
under  the  trees  in  the  market  became  a hazard  of 
dignity. 

There  were  city  officials  to  watch  it  and  the  conces- 
sionaire on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  twirling  his  mus- 
tache and  looking  as  though  the  Bank  of  England  were 
in  the  balance.  The  iced-drink  peddlars  urged  their 
frescos  helados  and  there  w7as  a vender  of  little  second- 
hand books — a sort  of  Italian-opera-chorus  comedian, 
like  the  travelling  physician  in  “L’Elisir  d’Amore” — 
who  would  rattle  off  “I  speek  all  the  languages,  senores 
— todos  los  idiomas — I speek  ze  Ingles  va-a-ary  good — 
0 yes,  all  right — will  you  have  my  books — Voulez-vous 
des  litres — for  ze  back-ache,  ze  stow-mack  ache — 0, 
yes — Quiere  usted  los  libros  V ’ In  a big,  hollow,  woven- 
wire  globe  were  poured  wooden  balls,  like  hazel  nuts, 
bearing  the  ticket  numbers,  in  a smaller  globe  the  balls 
bearing  the  prize  numbers  and  the  blanks.  These 
globes,  hung  on  axles  like  churns,  were  revolved,  stopped, 
a ball  extracted  from  each  through  a sort  of  spigot  by 
incorruptible  little  boys.  They  wrere  then  handed  to 
the  clerk,  wTho  read  the  numbers.  If  number  301  had 
dropped  from  the  big  globe  and  80  from  the  little  globe, 
the  man  who  owned  lottery  ticket  301  won  eighty  boli- 

20 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

vars.  He  stood  about  one  chance  in  thirty-three  of 
getting  this  or  any  other  prize.  The  prize  numbers 
were  chalked  up  on  a blackboard,  each  accompanied 
by  about  the  same  little  buzz  of  interest  that  is  be- 
stowed on  the  bidder  who  gets  a bargain  at  an  auction 
at  home.  The  squirrel  cages  continued  their  turning. 
The  old  negro  women  and  the  languid  mestizos  watched 
apathetically,  and  when  the  last  ball  had  dropped  out 
as  apathetically  shuffled  away. 

When  the  cool  of  the  day  comes  and  the  sun  is  going 
down,  the  shutters  are  drawn  back  from  the  front 
windows,  and  Mamma  and  the  ninas,  dressed  up  and 
made  very  beautiful,  sit  watching  the  street  with  their 
faces  close  to  the  bars.  If  one  knows  them  very  well 
indeed,  one  may  call,  being  careful  to  pay  all  one’s 
attention  to  Mamma,  while  Maria  or  Elvira  sits  across 
the  room,  fingering  her  bracelet  or  the  lace  on  her  sleeve, 
and  dropping  her  great  dark  eyes  and  blushing  if  one 
but  so  much  as  looks  her  way.  Or  one  may  stand  on 
the  sidewalk,  and,  while  folks  brush  by  on  the  narrow 
flagging — young  dandies,  perfumed,  and  whisking 
their  little  bamboo  canes,  negro  women  in  pink  or  sky- 
blue,  the  powder  lying  on  their  dusky  cheeks  like  flour, 
water-carriers,  beggars — talk  politely  through  the 
bars.  There  is  always  a chance  this  way  that  Elvira 
or  Maria,  in  the  most  casual  way  imaginable,  may  let 
her  fingers  slip  through  the  bars — though,  to  be  sure, 
just  a chance,  for  Mamma’s  rocking-chair  is  close  by 
and  it  is  too  much  to  hope  that  she  is  asleep,  even 
though  she  sits  with  eyes  half  closed.,  a little  like  an 

21 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


owl.  But  the  stray  gringo  may  only  tramp  glumly 
past,  almost  brushing  their  elbows,  staring — for  that 
is  considered  only  polite — as  frankly  as  though  they 
were  pictures  or  pretty  flowers.  All  may  seem  lovely 
then.  One  forgets  to  wonder  whether  they  could  think 
or  waltz  or  bake  bread,  whether,  were  they  at  home, 
they  would  not  be  leaning  on  a pillow  in  a Harlem  flat 
window’  watching  the  “L”  trains  go  by — forgets  the 
funny  little  “tidies”  and  “airbrush”  portraits,  and  the 
funnel  of  the  phonograph  dimly  visible  behind  them, 
and  with  the  brilliant  tropic  moonlight  turning  the 
shabby  old  walls  to  marble  and  the  tinkle  of  water 
coming  from  some  inner  court,  every  man  perforce  be- 
comes a Romeo,  and  each  half  seen  phantom  behind 
its  barred  window  a Juliet. 

But  what  is  Maria  like — suppose  you  could  drop  in 
as  if  you  wrere  at  home  ? Just  for  the  present  I intend  to 
evade  this  delicate  and  extremely  interesting  subject, 
though  as  we  stroll  on  down  the  street  I trust  there  will 
be  no  harm  in  pausing  at  the  big-tree  news-stand  a 
moment  and  reading  what  some  wicked,  cynical 
scribbler-person  says  in  that  droll  little  La  Compana. 
There  is  a drawing  of  a young  man  and  a young  lady 
under  the  title  Gente  Elegante,  and  this  is  w’hat  he  says : 
“You  may  call  her  Elena  or  Julia  or  Maria — it’s  all 
the  same.  In  all  haunts  of  the  fashionable  you’ll 
find  her — San  Bernardino,  El  Paraiso,  etc.,  are  the 
theatres  of  her  operations.  She  doesn’t  know  how 
many  eyes  a needle  has,  but  she  can  tell  you  the  exact 
color  of  the  skirts  which  la  bclla  Otero  puts  on  when  she 

22 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 


dances.  She  doesn’t  know  the  Credo,  but  she  never 
misses  church,  prayer-book  in  hand  like  the  Queen 
Regent.  If  you  should  ask  her  on  what  day  our  inde- 
pendence was  declared  she  wouldn’t  know  what  to 
reply,  but  on  the  other  hand  she  remembers  perfectly 
when  the  Princess  Chimay  ran  away  with  a violin 
for  baggage.  . . 

This  way  of  shutting  Julia  or  Elena  up  like  a doll  for 
the  men  to  promenade  past  her  cage,  rolling  their 
roving  eyes,  seems  strange  to  us,  but  here  again  let  us 
postpone  discussion,  for  the  present,  of  a custom  of 
hundreds  of  years,  though  in  passing  we  might  glance 
over  this  certainly  extraordinary  letter  addressed  to 
the  newspaper  El  Combate.  At  the  head  of  it  are  big 
initials  which  we  will  call 

X.  Y.  Z. 

These  are  the  initials  of  a young  man  who  has  made  me  the 
victim  of  his  immoral  and  stupid  persecution. 

He  is  a phantom  which  follows  me  everywhere,  and  wearies 
me  with  his  gross  attentions. 

To  free  myself  from  this  troublesome  insect  I wrote  to  his 
father  to  interfere,  and  liberate  me  from  such  a pretentious 
fellow. 

To  no  avail. 

Then  I went  to  the  Prefect  of  this  city  with  a formal  repre- 
sentation, signed  and  ratified  by  myself.  It  was  equally  useless. 

The  Quixote  of  my  window  redoubled  his  attentions,  and  last 
Saturday  I had  the  misfortune  to  meet  him  in  going  from  the 
Plaza  Lopez  to  Las  Animas,  and  to  endure  the  artillery  of  his 
glances. 


23 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

I am  resolved  as  the  result  of  all  this,  if  he  passes  my  window 
again,  to  publish  the  letter  which  I sent  to  his  father,  and  a 
copy  of  the  accusation  which  reposes  with  the  Prefect  of  Caracas. 

And  you  may  be  sure,  X.  Y.  Z.,  that  your  name  will  be  printed 
and  your  description  given  in  a way  that  you  will  not  forget  all 
your  life.  A.  B.  C. 

So  the  men  may  not  always  stare  successfully,  and 
little  Maria  thinks  a bit  for  herself  these  days!  A little 
time,  and  will  the  New  Woman  have  come  also  to 
Caracas? 

On  Sunday  evenings  the  band  plays  in  the  Plaza — 
at  other  times  in  the  week,  too,  here  and  over  in  the 
Paraiso,  but  Sunday  evening  is  the  best.  Then  every 
one  is  dressed  up  and  feeling  chipper,  the  little  hooded 
victorias  go  rattling  and  twinkling  by  livelier  than 
ever,  and  this  cheerful  national  institution  of  our  south- 
ern neighbors  performs  before  its  most  engaging 
audience.  The  statue  of  Bolivar  stands  in  the  centre 
of  the  Plaza,  in  an  open  tiled  place  where  the  tiled 
paths  come  together  and  cross.  At  the  opposite  end 
of  the  broadest  of  these  promenades,  on  a sort  of  dais 
reached  by  a flight  of  curved  stone  steps,  the  band 
plays,  and  up  and  down  in  front  of  it,  past  Bolivar’s 
statue  and  back  again,  the  crowd  strolls  and  chatters 
and  smokes  cigarettes.  That  is  to  say,  the  men  do — 
the  young  gentlemen  back  from  school  in  England  or 
Switzerland  or  the  States,  dressed  for  the  evening,  on 
their  way  to  dinner,  perhaps  at  one  of  the  legations, 
regarding  the  scene  with  a certain  detachment  and 
condescension;  the  young  town  dandies,  with  their 

24 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 


bamboo  sticks  and  absurdly  long,  slim,  yellow  shoes, 
a few  Yankee  drummers,  slapping  each  other  on  the 
back  with  conscious  hilarity  and  talking,  half  in  fun, 
in  their  horrible  Spanish;  a German  or  two,  conces- 
sionaires, perhaps,  of  some  great  rubber  plantation  in 
the  interior,  tall,  huge,  blond  and  comfortable,  stalking 
side  by  side,  heavy  walking  sticks  under  their  arms, 
talking  art,  philosophy  and  rates  of  exchange;  these, 
and  the  substratum  of  mestizos,  in  their  shabby  white, 
staring  apathetically.  And  on  either  side,  just  at  the 
edge  of  the  light  and  back  under  the  trees,  are  the 
families,  Papa  and  Mamma  and  the  young  ladies,  all 
in  a row  in  their  best  dresses  and  ribbons  and  gloves. 
Charming  are  the  little  ninas,  with  their  hands  in 
stiff,  little,  white  gloves  or  “mitts”  laid  primly  on  their 
laps,  and  their  great  shy  velvety  eyes  turning  slowly 
this  way  and  that,  without  any  more  sign  of  recognition 
than  though  those  wicked  men-creatures  promenading 
by  were  so  many  pictures  of  animals  in  books.  There 
was  something  about  them,  their  dressed-up  hats,  and 
their  shy,  little,  gloved  hands  lying  stiffly  parallel,  that 
was  exactly  like  the  jeunes  jilles  which  French  artists 
paint,  just  such  little  girls  as  Mr.  Shinn  or  Mr.  Glackens 
might  put  into  a picture  of  a park. 

They  will  tell  you  that  Caracas  is  not  what  she  used 
to  be  in  the  old  days  before  the  price  of  coffee  went 
down,  before  the  canny  Mr.  Castro  had  taxed  sugar  and 
things  as  they  are  taxed  now.  Everybody  was  rich 
then,  one  must  believe,  and  the  fountains  weren’t 
dried  up  nor  the  Carvallo  gone  to  seed — when  Madame 

25 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

Carreno  was  playing  and  Rojas  and  Michaelena  paint- 
ing, and  the  cable,  now  cut  out,  brought  real  news. 
Every  one  will  be  rich  again,  one  must  also  believe, 
when  the  Government  is  better  and  foreign  folks  with 
money  aren’t  afraid  to  invest  it,  and  all  those  Eldorados 
in  the  interior  are  opened  up.  Venezuela  was  the  only 
one  of  the  Latin- American  Republics  which  wouldn’t 
play  and  send  a delegate  to  the  Rio  Conference,  and, 
as  I write,  people  in  Caracas  are  expecting  any  day 
to  see  the  present  dictator  deposed.  Yet  I dare  say 
that  life  moves  on  in  the  little  capital  in  much  the 
same  way.  The  tunes  from  the  operas  thrill  just  as 
much  whether  or  not  there’s  a delegate  at  Rio,  the 
seiioritas’  eyes  are  as  bright  and  the  mountains  as 
beautiful. 

It  is  a perfect  place  to  play  with  life,  cloistered  away, 
so  near  to  the  real  world,  and  yet  so  far.  The  real 
world’s  manners  are  here,  but  none  of  its  problems. 
All  things  are  reduced  to  a scale  so  small  that  big 
general  things  become  individual  and  personal.  People 
who  have  money  have  made  it  easily,  those  who  haven’t 
it  expect  none.  There  is  no  striving,  strenuous  middle- 
class.  There  are  plenty  of  poets,  but  they  do  not  hear 
the  world’s  rumble  and  noise;  they  sit  on  a park  bench, 
write  verses  for  albums,  or  devise  epigrams  withering 
their  rivals  and  enemies.  They  hear  that  their  country 
is  being  ruined,  and  they  write  about  the  eyes  of  their 
women  and  compare  their  mouths  to  strawberries  and 
ripe  pomegranates.  When  the  President  defies  France 
they  look  up  at  the  brown  mountains  and  say:  “We 

2G 


CARACAS  AND  THE  VENEZUELANS 

could  hold  out  ten  years  up  there,”  just  as  the  sleepy 
creole  in  the  park  at  La  Guayra  looks  up  at  the  little 
fort  on  the  hill  and  says:  “ Surely,  sehor!  With  that 
we  could  blow  the  French  out  of  the  water!” 
Superimposed  on  this  quaint  world  is  the  tinier 
world  of  the  sophisticated — the  legations,  the  chosen, 
who  have  travelled  and  been  educated  abroad,  the 
exiles  of  commerce — a toy  world  more  or  less  typical  of 
every  South  American  city.  Within  it  people  dress 
for  dinner,  read  the  latest  magazines,  and  live  super- 
ficially much  as  they  would  here  or  in  Europe.  They 
drift  along  placidly,  with  the  gentle  raillery  of  those 
as  much  at  home  in  the  new  country  as  in  the  old, 
and  able,  at  will,  to  smile  at  one  from  the  standpoint 
of  the  other.  In  their  pretty  villas  and  courts  they 
are  like  people  living  in  conservatories.  Strange 
lost  sheep  blow  in  now  and  then — tourists,  conces- 
sion-hunters, adventurers,  correspondents — they  take 
them  as  they  come.  There  is  the  feeling  that  one 
can  always  go  back  if  one  wants  to,  the  real  world 
seems  like  the  city  during  a summer  vacation.  Its 
absence  gives  each  echo  of  it  a new  significance 
and  charm.  Every  “ dress  suit”  and  evening  gown 
acquires  a sort  of  romantic  significance.  A lady 
driving  along  the  Paraiso  in  a hired  carriage  is  as 
much  of  a personage  as  a lady  in  a crested  victoria 
driving  up  Fifth  Avenue  or  through  the  Park.  You 
drop  into  “La  India”  after  the  band  concert  for  a cup 
of  Caracas  chocolate,  with  the  same  emotions  that  you 
might  take  supper  after  the  theatre  at  Sherry’s.  It 

27 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


is  always  before  one,  changing  things  and  charming 
them — that  great  battlement  of  mountain  shutting 
out  the  northern  stars,  and  beyond  that  the  fever- 
filled  coast,  and  beyond  that  the  days  and  days  of 
languid  trades  and  blue  sargasso  sea. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 

There  are  many  strange  ways  of  getting  about  in 
South  America,  but  I doubt  if  any  of  them  brings  a 
more  complete  sense  of  contrast  than  comes  with 
walking  up  the  gangplank  from  the  wharf  at  La  Guayra 
to  the  deck  of  a Royal  Mail.  It  is  almost  as  hard  to 
get  out  of  La  Guayra  as  to  get  into  it;  one  must  call 
on  the  prefect  to  demonstrate  that  one  is  not  an 
escaping  regicide,  pay  one’s  going-away  fees,  deposit 
in  gold  enough  to  meet  quarantine  expenses  at  the 
Isthmus,  so  that  the  steamship  agent  may  violate  the 
company’s  order  to  accept  no  passengers  for  Colon; 
and,  after  pecking  at  a villainous  garlic-greasy  luncheon 
on  a hotel  balcony  looking  out  on  the  Caribbean, 
skirmishing  through  smelly  streets  hardly  daring  to 
draw  a full  breath,  and  awaiting  with  the  gringo’s 
panicky  dread  the  bite  of  the  yellow-fever  mosquito, 
one  has  just  about  forgotten  the  pretty  little  capital 
over  behind  the  mountains,  Bolivar  Plaza,  and  the 
hooded  victorias  twinkling  through  the  dark,  and  is 
ready  for  comic-opera  Latin-America  at  its  wildest. 

Then  you  step  across  a bit  of  planking  into  the 
British  Isles.  It  is  no  less  than  that.  Your  luggage 

29 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


is  brought  by  a barefoot  mestizo,  sputtering  Spanish 
frantically,  and  laboring  apparently  under  the  obsession 
that  you  have  robbed  him  or  that  the  steamer  is  going 
to  sail  without  you,  and  it  is  taken  by  a sandy-haired 
Cockney  steward,  who  says:  “Ticket,  sir,  if  you  please, 
sir,”  and  “Thank  you,  sir,”  whether  one  gives  him  half 
a sovereign  or  tells  him  that  he  ought  to  be  hanged. 
You  leave  behind  the  desayuno  of  rolls  and  cafe  con 
leche — hot  milk  and  native  coffee,  black  as  ink — and 
approach  a breakfast  of  toast  and  orange  marmalade, 
eggs,  cold  joints,  bloaters,  and  Yorkshire  brawn.  The 
decks  are  lined  with  steamer  chairs  whose  occupants 
seem  as  unaware  that  the  steamer  has  touched  at  a 
new  port,  full  of  sights  new  and  strange  which  they 
may  never  see  again,  as  they  are  of  the  existence  of 
those  reclining  on  either  side  of  them.  They  do  not 
see  the  theatre-curtain  town,  nor  the  wonderful  brown 
mountains.  They  are  reading  the  romances  of  the 
Colonial  Library,  just  as  they  were  five  minutes  after 
the  ship  left  Southampton,  just  as  they  would  be 
if  they  were  sailing  east  on  a P.  and  0.  to  whatever 
queer  corner  of  the  Orient. 

At  five  o’clock,  of  course,  there  are  tea  and  biscuits, 
and  the  Colonial  Governor,  on  his  way  “out”  to  his 
new  post,  tastes,  sets  down  his  cup,  and  forthwith 
summons  the  head  steward:  “What  is  this?”  he 
demands,  and  the  steward,  wetting  his  lips  and  almost 
turning  pale,  ventures  the  opinion  that  it  is  tea. 
“Tea?”  rumbles  the  Colonial  Governor.  “ Tea ?”  He 
regards  the  portly  steward  as  though  he  were  some 

30 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


eccentric  insect.  “Now,  my  good  man!”  he  begins, 
straightening' up,  one  hand  on  the  hip,  “I  have  drunk 
tea  for  forty  yeahs,  and  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  and  I 
know ” 

At  six-thirty  the  bugle  blows.  The  Major’s  big 
bulldog-toed  tan  boots,  which  look  as  though  they  had 
tramped  over  many  miles  of  fair  green,  cease  their 
steady  pound  up  and  down  the  deck,  the  young  men 
rap  their  pipes  on  the  rail,  the  young  women  put  down 
their  Colonial  novels.  At  seven  all  emerge,  dressed 
as  though  they  were  dining  out  at  home  instead  of 
dozing  westward  through  the  tepid  Caribbean  in  the 
dregs  of  the  northeast  trades.  Soda  bottles  begin  to 
pop,  the  squeaky  little  orchestra  plays  “The  Lost 
Chord,”  and  airs  from  the  latest  Gaiety  Theatre  success, 
and  the  Colonial  Governor  and  the  Colonel,  at  the 
captain’s  table,  rumble  in  the  fine,  sonorous  parlia- 
mentary manner  of  the  Dreadnought's  coal  consump- 
tion, the  native  question  in  Bengal,  and  the  laboring 
men’s  lack  of  interest  in  Nonconformist  schemes,  as 
though  they  were  reading  aloud  from  The  Spectator 
or  The  Saturday  Review. 

It  was  inconceivably  British — that  ship.  I mean 
that  its  Briticism  was  of  that  incredible  sort,  which, 
like  the  complementary  kind  of  Americanism,  one 
expects  to  find  only  in  the  caricatures  of  novels  or 
the  stage.  One  could  imagine  it  sailing  round  the 
world  forever  and  peeping  into  all  the  world’s  strange 
and  wonderful  ports,  and  still  the  steamer  chairs  would 
line  the  deck  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  ship  from 

31 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


which  things  were  to  be  seen,  still  the  heads  would 
be  bent  complacently  over  the  Colonial  novels.  There 
were  several  locomotive  drivers  on  their  wTay  to  a 
West  Coast  railroad — fine  stalwart  chaps,  with  that 
wonderful  combination  of  sturdiness  and  stupidity 
which  is  rarely  so  well  exhibited  as  in  the  face  of  the 
British  working  man.  I happened  to  speak  to  one  of 
them  of  “the  Canal.”  “W’at  canal  is  that?”  said  he. 
I told  him  that  the  United  States  was  trying  to  dig 
one  across  Panama.  “ Aouw” — he  said,  “are  they 
buildin’  a canal  there?”  with  that  peculiar  accent  of 
the  question  which  seems  to  imply  that  probably  that 
is  exactly  what  they  are  not  doing. 

Two  ladies  sat  at  the  captain’s  right — austere, 
scarcely  youthful  females,  who  dressed  in  black  lace 
each  night.  They  might  have  stepped  out  of  a Du 
Maurier  drawing  in  Punch.  Any  one  who  was  ever 
housed  in  that  antique  and  flea-bitten  caravansary 
which  stands  across  the  plaza  from  the  cathedral  at 
Panama — up  to  last  May,  at  least,  triumphantly  the 
worst  hotel  in  the  worst  of  all  possible  worlds — will 
understand  how  it  was  almost  with  grief  that  a few 
days  after  we  had  landed  one  saw  these  poor  creatures 
there  nibbling  at  its  villainous  table  d’hote.  It  was 
almost  shocking  a few  days  later  to  catch  a glimpse 
of  them  on  the  sun-blistered  dock  at  La  Boca,  gently 
bred  apparently,  certainly  inexperienced,  jostled  by 
sweating  coal-passers  and  negro  porters,  picking  their 
way,  timorously,  to  a shabby  little  half-freighter  bound 
up  the  Mexican  coast.  They  could  not  sail  for  several 

32 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


days,  and  meanwhile  they  must  exist  there,  with 
donkey  engines  wrangling  all  about  them  and  coal- 
dust  flying,  and  bake  in  one  of  the  hottest  ports  of  the 
world.  It  was  not  until  we  were  well  down  the  Peru- 
vian coast  that  a young  American  engineer,  to  whom 
they  had  appealed  one  day  in  Panama,  told  me  what 
it  all  meant.  They  were  on  their  way  to  San  Francisco. 
And  to  compass  a journey,  wrhich  by  way  of  North 
Atlantic  liners  and  Pullman  cars  might  have  been 
made  in  rather  less  time  than  a fortnight,  they  were 
to  travel  thousands  and  thousands  of  miles,  touch  at 
half  the  fever-stricken  ports  on  the  Western  continent, 
and  consume,  first  and  last,  probably  all  of  two  months. 
“But  what  on  earth — ” “Well,”  grinned  the  young 
engineer,  “they  said  it  was  the  only  way.  They’d 
understood  that  transportation  was  still  so  crude  that 
it  wasn’t  safe  for  women  to  try  to  cross  the  interior 
of  the  States!” 

It  seemed  to  me  not  the  least  interesting  thing  about 
the  fever-breathing  strip  of  coast  between  La  Guayra 
and  Colon  that  ships  like  these  should  be  steaming 
along  it  only  a stone’s  throw,  so  to  speak,  off  shore. 
I thought  of  it  as  we  lay  at  the  dock  one  morning  at 
Cartagena,  when,  with  thunder-claps  crashing  all  round 
us  like  exploding  shells  and  that  rain  which  only  the 
tropics  know,  filling  all  the  world  beyond  the  deck 
awnings  in  one  solid  steamy  waterfall,  the  if-you-please- 
sir-thank-you  stewards  began,  promptly  at  eleven 
o’clock  as  usual,  to  patter  from  chair  to  chair  with 
their  vanilla  biscuits  and  little  pink  ices.  And  I 

33 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


thought  of  it  every’  time  I looked  overside  and  saw 
the  flying-fish  spattering  away  from  the  bow,  and  re- 
called that  behind  that  jagged  brown  shore-line  were 
the  snow  heights  and  the  steamy  jungles  of  the  Orinoco 
and  Colombia,  and  not  so  very  far  away  Indians  as 
naked  and  refreshingly  savage  as  any  in  the  world. 

There  are  two  ways  of  seeing  this  northwest  corner 
of  South  America  and  traversing  the  several  thousand 
miles  that  take  one  from  the  asphalt  and  cabs  of  Cara- 
cas to  the  asphalt  and  cabs  of  the  capital  of  Peru. 
By  one  way  you  go  cross-country,  cut  your  way  through 
jungles,  ford  rivers  full  of  alligators  and  snakes,  shiver 
on  mountain  passes  higher  than  any  in  the  Rockies, 
get  bitten  up  by  all  sorts  of  troublesome  insects  and 
elected  to  a geographical  society  when  you  get  home. 
By  the  other  way,  one  coasts  along  effetely  in  some 
such  mailboat  as  this,  and  endeavors  to  content  one’s 
self  by  reading  “ Westward  Ho,”  and  consular  reports, 
viewing  the  mouldering  dungeons  of  Cartagena,  and 
speculating  about  the  days  when  pirates  rejoiced  in 
these  waters  and  the  Inquisition  roasted  people  on 
red-hot  iron  mattresses.  If  these  lines  should  chance 
to  fall  beneath  the  eye  of  a Colombian,  I hope  he  will 
not  think  that  it  was  any  passionate  attachment  to 
the  society  of  a steamer-chair  which  prompted  the 
writer  to  deny  himself  the  more  arduous  and  more 
interesting  pilgrimage,  nor  that  this  mere  coasting 
trip  was  intended  as  any  affirmation  of  the  notion  that 
the  Republic  of  Colombia  is  not  to  be  taken  seriously. 
But  we  have  but  one  life  and  there  are  limits  to  things. 

34 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 

There  are  few  cities  in  South  America,  for  instance, 
which  the  wanderer  who  strays  into  these  parts  would 
rather  get  a glimpse  of  than  Bogota,  the  capital  of 
Colombia.  So  few  people  from  the  big  world  ever 
visit  it  that  it  is  almost  like  some  buried  city  of  Tibet. 
It  lies  in  the  interior,  ten  thousand  feet  up  in  the  air — 
so  far  up  that  though  within  five  degrees  of  the  equator 
its  average  temperature  is  like  our  spring.  Buried 
away,  as  they  are,  the  people  of  Bogota  have  preserved 
more  of  the  Spanish  life  than  their  more  accessible 
neighbors.  It  is  away  up  here  that  the  sonorous 
tongue  of  Cervantes  and  Calderon  is  spoken  most 
perfectly.  Bogota  is  the  centre  of  that  interest  in 
things  literary  which  is  perhaps  the  most  typical 
characteristic  of  the  Colombian  when  contrasted  with 
his  neighbors.  It  was  after  he  had  been  at  Harvard 
that  a young  Venezuelan  told  me  that  Bogota  was 
"the  Boston  of  South  America,”  and,  to  hear  South 
Americans  describe  it,  one  might  almost  think  that 
Bogota  reproduced  the  days  of  the  precieuses.  If 
you  ask  the  name  of  the  best  novel  written  in  South 
America,  you  will  generally  be  told  that  it  is  "Maria,” 
a story  written  by  a Colombian  about  Colombia;  the 
delegate  which  the  Colombians  sent  to  the  conference 
at  Rio  was  one  of  their  favorite  poets.  Yet  to  get  to 
Bogota,  even  after  one  has  left  the  steamer  at  Sav- 
anilla,  takes  two  weeks’  travel  up  the  Magdalena 
River,  and  by  mule-back  across  the  mountains;  there 
is  no  way  to  get  out  except  by  the  way  one  came — 
M the  best  a whole  month  gone. 

35 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

It  is  inaccessibility  such  as  this  which  has  always 
been  Colombia’s  great  drawback,  and  which  has  done 
much  to  prevent  it  from  reaching  a stage  of  civilization 
in  which  the  country  as  a whole  could  be  taken  seri- 
ously. Colombia  is  about  ten  times  as  large  as  New 
York  State,  and,  excepting  the  Caribbean  coast  and 
the  broad  llanos  of  the  eastern  part,  sloping  down  to 
the  Orinoco  and  Amazon,  the  whole  land  is  one  tangle 
of  valleys  walled  in  by  mountains,  anywhere  from  ten 
to  twenty  thousand  feet  high.  One  can  look  from  one 
neighborhood  to  another,  to  reach  which  by  the  cir- 
cuitous trails  would  take  days.  There  are  practically 
no  railroads — communication  between  the  capital  and 
the  various  departments  is  by  horseback,  and  about 
the  vividest  idea  the  outlying  people  get  of  the  national 
administration  is  when  some  representative  of  it  comes 
round  to  put  up  the  taxes. 

They  write  and  read  a great  deal  of  poetry  in  Bogota, 
but  the  folks  who  do  it  are  only  a tiny  oligarchy, 
superimposed  on  the  country’s  untrained  mass,  sloping 
down  grade  from  merely  illiterate  mestizos  to  out-and- 
out  savages.  Only  about  one-third  of  the  people  are 
white.  Of  the  future  importance  of  the  country, 
there  is,  of  course,  no  doubt.  Its  minerals,  in  spite 
of  the  hundreds  of  millions  the  Spaniards  gathered  up, 
have,  in  the  modern  mining  sense,  scarcely  been 
scratched.  It  has  coffee  and  rubber  and  woods,  and 
several  million  cattle  are  now  ranging  in  its  eastern 
llanos.  It  will  be  the  nearest  country  to  the  Panama 
Canal,  and  it  is  only  five  days  from  New  York.  But 

36 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


even  the  present  chronicler  must  admit  that,  in  spite 
of  its  upper  class,  Colombia,  together  with  Ecuador, 
and,  in  a lesser  sense,  Venezuela,  is  one  of  those  Latin- 
American  countries  which  are,  in  a modern  sense, 
scarcely  house-broken.  The  velvety  breath  that  whis- 
pers through  the  palm  trees  of  the  Caribbean  would 
woo  the  soul  away  from  an  iron  statue  of  a Puritan 
Father  and  make  him  forget  his  country,  yet  one  can 
scarcely  refrain  from  smiling  at  the  three  little  toy 
ships  of  Colombia’s  navy,  dancing  in  the  sun  off  Car- 
tagena, or  at  a land  where  for  a few  cents  of  almost 
any  sort  of  money,  you  get  a handful  of  bills  in  change. 
It  is  hard  to  be  quite  serious  when  you  spend  three  days 
in  a little  flea-bitten  shack  on  the  beach,  and  the  hotel 
proprietor,  with  a low  bow,  hands  you  a bill  for  $900. 

The  disadvantage  in  coming  to  the*  Isthmus  from 
any  such  respectable  and  unsuspected  port  as  South- 
ampton or  New  York,  is  that  one  is  compelled  on 
arriving  to  go  to  a Panama  hotel,  instead  of  being 
hustled  away  to  quarantine.  The  long  arm  of  Colonel 
Gorgas  and  his  men,  which  descends  alike  on  the 
solitary  stegomya  basking  in  the  rain-barrel,  and  whole 
shiploads  of  people  embarked  at  ports  a thousand 
miles  away,  had  made  La  Guayra  a suspected  port, 
and  whoever  had  come  from  there  must  be  quaran- 
tined until  the  six  days,  during  which  the  fever  de- 
velops, were  past.  Our  British  acquaintances,  there- 
fore, went  to  Panama,  where,  until  the  west  coast 
mail-boat  sailed,  they  could  enjoy  some  of  the  worst  of 
Spanish-American  cooking  and  awake  of  mornings  to 

37 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


watch  the  insectivora  crawling  up  the  mosquito  cur- 
tains of  their  beds  back  to  their  daytime  lairs.  We, 
from  Venezuela,  were  bundled  into  a sea-going  hack 
and  driven  through  darkest  Colon — which  resembles  a 
fishing  village  on  Jamaica  Bay  when  the  tide  is  out — 
past  the  big  hospital,  to  a frame  cottage,  new,  screened, 
and  fresh  as  paint.  We  thought  at  the  time  that  we 
were  rather  roughly  used,  but  one  night  of  freedom  in  a 
Panama  hotel  a few  days  later  gave  us  precisely  the 
feelings  of  the  man  in  the  music-hall  song  who  asked  if 
they  wouldn’t  put  him  back  in  his  little  cell. 

It  was  really  a delightful  place.  A certain  breeze 
wanders  off  the  Caribbean,  so  soft  and  sweet  that 
body  and  spirit  fairly  dissolve  in  it  as  in  some  faint, 
exquisite  music.  But  it  is  a furtive  breeze,  as  difficult 
to  grasp  as  the  shadow  of  Ting-a-ling  in  Peter  Pan.  It 
particularly  likes  corners.  I mean  the  outside  corners 
of  houses  which  have  a porch.  It  will  blow  on  people 
it  knows,  and  who  know  the  precise  angle  it  likes,  and 
make  them  wonder  why  any  one  should  think  it  un- 
comfortably hot  in  Panama;  but  if  they  presume  a 
bit  and  move  so  much  as  a hair-breadth  to  one  side, 
it  goes  out  like  an  electric  light  and  leaves  them  gasp- 
ing on  what  might  be  a tin  roof  on  the  very  hottest 
dog-day  at  home.  There  was  one  of  those  corners  on 
the  porch  at  Quarantine  where  you  could  tilt  your 
chair  back,  put  your  feet  on  the  porch  rail,  watch  the 
ships  sailing  into  the  Caribbean,  and  shiver  agreeably  at 
the  stories  of  disease  and  death  the  other  prisoners  told. 

We  always  talked  disease  and  death.  By  day,  with 

38 


U.  S.  quarantine  station  on  the  beach  at  Colon.  The  white  man’s  burden-carrier  bound 

for  Panama. 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


pipes  alight,  clad  only  in  pajamas,  with  the  coral  drive 
round  our  little  bay  blazing  in  the  sun,  it  was  cheerful 
enough;  but  toward  evening,  when  the  mosquitoes 
began  to  swarm  over  from  the  marshes  in  clouds,  and 
one  felt,  in  spite  of  what  the  doctor  said,  that  at  least 
one  or  two  of  them  must  be  stegomyas,  we  listened  like 
children  hearing  ghost  stories,  or  shipwrecked  sailors 
talking  about  sharks  while  clinging  to  a raft.  There 
were  only  six  or  eight  of  us — a black-and-tan  family 
bound  for  Panama,  some  beach-combers,  and  the  rest 
from  the  second-class  were  housed  in  an  adjoining 
cottage — and  to  the  others,  quarantines,  eating  qui- 
nine and  driving  the  fever  out  of  one’s  carcass  was  part 
of  the  day’s  work.  One  was  a Canal  employee;  he 
had  had  the  fever  in  Havana,  and  had  a certificate 
saying  that  he  was  immune,  but  he  had  sailed  from 
Savanilla  and  had  been  ordered  to  Quarantine,  with 
the  rest.  One  was  a young  engineer  on  his  way  home 
from  the  Nicaragua  banana  country;  you  were  bound 
to  have  more  or  less  malaria,  he  said,  if  you  had  to 
work  in  the  “bush,”  but  he  got  a couple  of  months  in 
the  north  each  year,  and  that  seemed  to  pull  him 
through.  Only  once  had  he  “come  near  to  croaking,” 
although  that,  to  be  sure,  was  a pretty  close  squeak. 
They  measured  him  for  his  coffin,  and  in  the  thoughtful 
way  they  had  in  that  little  native  hospital,  brought  it 
in  and  set  it  beside  his  bed. 

“The  good  thing  is,”  one  of  the  others  said,  “you’re 
always  out  of  your  head.  If  you  get  well  all  right, 
and  if  you  don’t,  why  you  go  off  without  knowing  it — 

39 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


and  that’s  all  right,  too.”  He  had  just  come  “out” 
from  home — a young  Scotchman,  scarcely  thirty,  yet 
with  nearly  ten  years’  sendee  behind  him  in  every 
sort  of  fever-cursed  land,  from  the  Gold  Coast  to  the 
Far  East.  He  was  a commercial  traveller,  and  he  had 
been  down  the  west  coast  of  Africa  somewhere  when 
the  "house”  had  cabled  that  the  man  who  covered 
the  Caribbean  country  had  died  at  last,  and  he  must 
go  over  and  take  his  place. 

"He  went  off  two  months  ago — at  Maracaibo,” 
explained  the  young  Scotchman;  "he  kept  at  it  too 
long.” 

This  young  man,  too,  had  had  his  measure  taken 
after  the  natives  had  brought  him  down  several  days’ 
journey  to  one  of  the  little  ports  on  the  Gold  Coast. 
A ship  happened  to  be  in  port,  and,  as  steamers  didn’t 
pass  that  way  very  often,  his  baggage  was  packed  up 
and  sent  aboard,  and  a cable  sent  home  that  his  case 
was  hopeless.  He  had  had  about  every  disease  in  the 
list  of  those  with  creepy  names  which  whisk  one  off 
in  a night,  and  his  face  showed  that  he  had  not  spent 
his  life  looking  out  of  a club  window.  Yet  he  was  not 
what  is  called  a hero.  He  was  an  agent  for  a firm  of 
whiskey  manufacturers.  While  our  baggage  was  being 
inspected  on  the  wharf,  I had  noticed  two  very  solid- 
looking leather  boxes  among  his  luggage,  bearing  ini- 
tials not  his  own. 

"Yes,”  he  said  dryly,  when  I spoke  about  them 
afterward,  “they  have  seen  a good  bit  of  service  out 
here.  They  belonged  to  the  other  man.” 

40 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 

You  run  across  them  everywhere  down  here,  the 
soldiers  of  that  strange  legion  which  is  always  in  active 
service,  always  on  the  firing  line,  yet  without  a flag 
and  without  a name.  They  are  through  the  jungle 
ahead  of  the  railroad  and  over  the  passes  before  the 
engineers.  They  know  the  Kaffir  and  bushwhackers’ 
slang  names  for  food,  and  to  sell  a bit  of  cotton  cloth 
or  a phonograph  they  are  ready  to  speak  more  lan- 
guages than  a Russian  diplomat.  They  cross  deserts 
and  ignore  pestilence,  and  the  things  that  amateur 
explorers  write  volumes  about  are  not  mentioned  when 
they  run  across  a mail-boat  and  send  back  to  the 
“house”  a report  of  the  day’s  work.  They  don’t  get 
any  medals  or  any  cheers  or  any  pensions,  and  they 
are  lucky  if  they  get  their  name  in  the  paper  when  the 
time  comes  for  them  to  “snuff  it”  in  some  far-off 
jungle,  under  any  flag  in  the  world  but  their  own. 

Although  prisoners,  we  could  walk  along  the  beach 
for  about  the  distance  of  two  city  blocks  to  a certain 
stump  beside  the  water,  and  if  any  one  passed  that, 
the  little  German  doctor  would  call  from  the  porch, 
and  the  big  Jamaica  negro  policeman,  in  khaki  and  a 
brown  helmet,  would  start  toward  us,  beaming  his 
superior  and  sphinx-like  smile.  He  was  a wonderful 
person,  very  proud  of  his  position,  of  the  distinguished 
personage  whom  he  called  “Uncle  Som,”  and  he  spoke 
the  most  elegant  phrase-book  English  with  a British 
accent  that  made  the  most  precise  of  us  feel  small  and 
colloquial.  It  was  superb  to  hear  him  ask  the  negro 
driver  of  one  of  the  rickety  Colon  carriages,  “Suh — 

41 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


what  is  yoh  tariff?”  or  to  watch  him  stride  in  majestic- 
ally from  the  other  house  and  request,  “If  I am  not 
incommoding  jtou  too  much,  steward,  two  moh  bottles 
of  yoh  aerated  watahs.” 

If  all  the  Canal  negroes  fitted  into  their  places  as 
perfectly  as  did  this  benign  and  efficient  personage, 
the  problem  of  labor  would  not  be  perplexing.  I had 
my  first  glimpse  of  the  Canal  negro  when  I took  the 
steamer  at  La  Guayra.  She  had  touched  at  Trinidad 
and  Georgetown,  and  her  steerage  decks,  fore  and  aft, 
were  packed  with  Barbadoes  negroes.  They  were 
husky,  strong-looking  fellows,  like  most  West  Indian 
negroes,  black,  and  smooth  as  seals.  Some  were 
beautiful,  in  their  chocolate  statue  fashion;  tall,  with 
narrow  waists  and  fine  shoulders  that  showed  through 
their  torn  shirts  like  chocolate-colored  bronze.  Mr. 
Rowland  Thomas,  looking  down  from  the  upper  deck, 
might  have  mistaken  several  for  his  “Fagan.”  By  day 
they  sprawled  in  the  sun  like  turtles  or  amused  them- 
selves with  absurd  games,  crawling  along  the  rails  like 
monkeys  or  begging  for  cigarettes  from  the  cabin  pas- 
sengers with  the  peculiar  Cockney  whine  of  the  negro 
of  the  British  West  Indies;  at  night  they  danced  on 
the  deck  while  two  or  three  pounded  on  the  hatchway 
with  sticks,  precisely  the  same  sort  of  tomtom  song,  I 
dare  say,  that  their  relations  were  beating  at  the  same 
moment  in  the  heart  of  the  Congo  jungle. 

It  was  difficult  to  associate  them  with  hard  and  per- 
sistent labor;  they  seemed,  as  much  as  the  palm  trees, 
a part  of  those  sleepy  isles  the  steamer  had  left  behind, 

42 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 

with  their  sunshine  and  their  tobacco  and  coffee  and 
the  rank  molasses-sugar  smells.  They  were  merely 
happy  tropical  animals.  Then  one  day  we  sighted  the 
Isthmus.  Instantly  there  was  a grand  scramble.  Out 
of  tin  trunks  and  paper  bundles  came  duck  suits  and 
rakish  flannels,  Panama  hats  with  silk-scarf  hatbands, 
barber-pole  ties  that  would  have  made  a Yale  sopho- 
more envious — all  the  conglomeration  of  British  hand- 
me-down  clothing  which  could  be*  accumulated  in  such 
a place  as  the  Barbadoes,  where  British  clothing  is  as 
cheap  as  it  is  in  London.  They  had  elaborated  all  the 
little  tricks  they  had  picked  up  from  their  British 
masters.  The  Panamas  were  carefully  turned  up  in 
front  and  down  behind,  their  ducks  were  rolled 
up  half-way  to  their  knees,  flaming  silk  hand- 
kerchiefs were  hanging  negligently  out  of  breast- 
pockets. They  strolled  the  deck  and  leaned  on 
their  sticks  with  the  air  of  Broadway  chorus  gentle- 
men, and  the  same  shameless,  slovenly  children 
who  had  begged  for  tobacco  now  stared  up  toward 
the  saloon  deck  with  a “who-the-deuce-are-you?”  air 
which  seemed  to  be  endeavoring  to  assure  us  that  we 
had  never  seen  them  before.  It  was  men  like  these 
who  had  come  to  undertake  continuous  and  exhausting 
labor  under  conditions  which  called  for  pluck  and 
fortitude  of  the  first  order.  I do  not  know  how  typical 
this  boatload  may  have  been ; others,  perhaps,  had  less 
of  this  hopeless  mixture  of  barbarism  and  cheap 
sophistication.  But  when  one  thought  of  these  black 
men  with  H.  M.  S.  Impregnable  hatbands  running  up 

43 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


against  an  Irish  Canal  foreman,  for  instance,  the  labor 
problem  opened  up  a few  of  its  vistas.  And  it  was 
instructive  to  recall  the  look  of  these  men  two  or  three 
days  later,  when  we  recognized  some  of  them  at  work 
along  the  railroad — clothes  out  of  sight  now,  cocky 
manners  out  of  sight  too,  just  simple,  “cagey”  Canal 
negroes,  moving  so  slowly  that  one  wondered  how 
they  could  keep  their  balance,  carrying  shovelfuls  of 
dirt  with  the  elaborate  care  of  contestants  in  a slow 
bicycle  race. 

To  those  who  know  them,  the  tropics  are  not  ter- 
rible, treacherous  though  they  be;  even  in  naturally 
unhealthy  places  like  Panama,  where  such  work  as 
Colonel  Gorgas  and  his  men  are  doing  has  been  done, 
there  is  scarcely  more  danger  to  health  than  in  the 
temperate  north.  Such  work  is  part  of  the  romance 
of  modern  science — to  destroy  terror,  stamp  out  dis- 
ease, defeat  what  amounted  to  a hostile  army  with 
sharpshooters  behind  every  tree,  concealed,  indeed,  in 
every  rain-puddle  and  water-barrel;  and  to  do  it,  not 
with  fighting  and  smoke  and  blood,  but  peacefully, 
silently,  with  microscopes  and  drains  and  mosquito 
screens.  Its  importance  can  scarcely  be  over-estimated. 
For  it  means,  not  merely  making  the  Isthmus  habi- 
table, but  changing  the  problem  of  the  whole  tropics 
and  throwing  it  open  to  the  white  man. 

All  of  the  men  whom  I met  on  the  Isthmus,  who  had 
work  which  allowed  them  to  remain  indoors  away 
from  the  sun,  seemed  contented.  There  was  always  a 
breeze,  they  said,  and  in  the  shade  it  was  more  com- 

44 


THE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


fortable  than  it  was  in  summer  in  the  city  at  home. 
Their  lodgings  were  clean  and  roomy,  and  the  meals 
at  the  commissariat  restaurants  which  cost  them  thirty- 
five  cents  and  strangers  fifty  cents,  were  much  better 
than  those  supplied  by  the  average  boarding-house  in 
New  York.  The  most  satisfied  person  I met  was  a 
man  who  had  spent  his  life  in  clubs  and  restaurants 
at  home  before  he  took  up  an  executive  position  in 
one  of  the  departments  on  the  Canal. 

“Food’s  good,  do  nothing  at  night  but  sleep,  and 
it’s  no  hotter  than  it  is  in  summer  in  Chicago,”  he 
said.  “Gained  twenty  pounds,  and  I whistle  every 
morning  when  I’m  taking  my  bath,  and  that’s  some- 
thing I didn’t  used  to  be  able  to  do.” 

These  are  the  cheering  things  one  hears  after  seeing 
the  Canal  and  talking  with  its  builders,  but  few 
Northerners,  used  to  thinking  of  “the  country”  as  a 
paradise  in  which  one  rides  and  plays  golf  and  gets 
rested  and  healthy,  can  journey  across  the  Isthmus 
for  the  first  time  without  a certain  feeling  of  creepi- 
ness, as  though  one  were  entering  a darkened  sick- 
room sheltering  some  malignant  disease,  or  an  ambush 
that  concealed  an  enemy.  Outside  it  is  only  a strip 
of  jungle  land.  There  is  an  aisle  of  tropical  vines  and 
creepers,  pierced  by  a railroad,  wooded  hills  presently, 
and  the  view  now  and  then  of  a sluggish  river.  The 
very  stillness  and  lethargy  of  it  only  make  more 
oppressive  the  weight  of  tragedy  that  lies  upon  it — 
makes  it  seem  more  treacherous.  Hopes  and  fortunes 
and  thousands  of  lives  have  perished  here,  and  there 

45 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


lies  the  jungle,  flat  and  stupid  and  freshly  green,  inno- 
cent as  a quicksand.  Nature  ceases  to  be  our  kindly, 
comfortable  mother  of  the  North.  One  shrinks  from 
her.  You  do  not  throw  up  your  chin  and  fill  your 
lungs;  you  breathe  with  a certain  dread,  as  though 
the  very  air  were  poisonous.  Through  the  vines  you 
can  see  now  and  then  the  engines  and  dump-cars  and 
little  cranes  left  by  the  French.  The  hungry  vegeta- 
tion, with  the  relentless  sureness  of  a python  swallow- 
ing a rabbit,  has  all  but  submerged  them.  There  is 
something  horrible  and  uncanny  in  the  inevitableness 
of  this  tropical  growth,  outwardly  so  fragile  and  so 
frail.  From  the  tops  of  rusty  smoke-stacks  and  steam- 
shovels,  pale  tendrils  flutter  and  swing  in  the  breeze, 
pretty  and  careless,  and  they  seem  like  the  little  waves 
lapping  about  some  dead  thing  in  the  water.  . . . 

It  was  sunset  time  when  we  rode  through  the  Cu- 
lebra  Cut.  Work  had  stopped,  and  beside  the  fresh 
gashes  they  had  gnawed  in  the  red  clay  of  the  hillside, 
the  South  Milwaukee  steam  shovels — almost  alive  and 
personal  they  seemed,  so  wonderfully  did  they  bring 
into  the  jungle  the  strength  and  sure  sweep  of  that 
life  of  the  North — rested  for  the  night.  The  army  of 
workers  were  returning  home.  At  every  station  folks 
poured  into  the  train;  clerks  from  the  division  chiefs’ 
offices,  young  engineers  with  red  clay  plastered  all  over 
their  boots  and  puttees,  sweat  coming  through  the 
khaki  between  their  shoulders,  and  that  tired  look 
across  the  eyes  that  comes  to  white  men  who  have  to 
work  and  worry  in  a tropical  climate.  With  them, 

4G 


T FIE  ROYAL  MAIL  AND  PANAMA 


returning  from  marketing  or  visiting,  were  their  sis- 
ters and  wives  and  young  lady  school-teachers  in 
summer  shirtwaists.  Everybody  seemed  to  know 
everybody  else.  It  was  like  a commuter’s  train  going 
out  to  Jersey  at  six  o’clock.  The  young  engineers 
leaned  over  the  backs  of  the  seats  and  chatted  with  the 
school-teachers — some  of  the  wives  and  sisters  brought 
out  candy  boxes  and  passed  them  around. 

“Hello,  Mrs.  S.,  how’s  everything?  . . . Well,  she 
said  ...  Yes,  he’s  going  to  get  a month’s  vacation  and 
run  up  to  Utica  for  . . . See  you  at  the  dance,  Friday  . . . 
We  got  the  worst  of  it  cleaned  off  now,  and  just  as 
soon  as  we  burn  the  brush  off,  we’ll  turn  stock  in  here, 
by  jiminy,  and  make  a meadow  of  the  whole  damn 
jungle.  . . . Lucille’s  just  got  all  the  music,  an’  it’s 
simply  . . . Can’t  you  come  over  to-night?”  . . . 

It  is  hard  to  explain  to  one  who  has  not  first  felt  the 
creepy  spell  of  a fever  neighborhood,  the  hideous  in- 
humanity of  the  tropical  wilderness,  just  what  such 
ordinary  talk  from  these  ordinary  people  meant  in 
such  a place.  It  seemed  to  quiet  the  noisy  shouting 
about  graft  and  plunder,  and  make  it  only  the  red- 
faced wrangling  of  a day;  for  the  moment  it  was  the 
voice  of  that  young,  strong,  clean  nation,  which  had 
tackled  this  job,  the  sign  and  promise  of  the  finished 
work.  The  cool  of  evening  breathed  into  the  car 
windows,  ravines  sank  into  shadow,  wooded  hilltops 
glowed  in  the  sunset;  and  the  treacherous  jungle  lost 
its  treachery  and  acquired  a sweetness  and  humanity. 


47 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  WEST  COASTERS 

Sailing  out  into  the  Pacific  from  Panama,  the  Isthmus 
lies  behind,  so  low  and  narrow,  and  understandable, 
that  as  you  watch  the  jagged  backbone  of  the  continent 
disappear  into  the  mists  on  either  horizon,  toward 
Honduras  and  Colombia,  it  seems  almost  as  though 
you  were  looking  at  a relief  map,  and  that  if  you 
should  climb  to  the  top  of  the  mast,  for  instance,  you 
could  view  both  continents  from  Alaska  down  to  the 
Horn.  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  real  South  Amer- 
ica. And  after  the  third  day  out,  when  the  ship 
crosses  the  Line,  the  rest  of  the  world  seems  very  far 
awray.  One  is  aware  of  stepping  into  new  pastures  as 
soon  as  one  boards  the  steamship  at  La  Boca. 

In  the  North  Atlantic,  at  least,  there  is  nothing  quite 
like  these  quaint  arks  that  meander  down  the  long 
highway  from  Panama  to  Valparaiso.  Large  as  our 
smaller  ocean  steamships,  but  with  an  extraordinary 
amount  of  deck  space,  and  the  staterooms  all  on  deck, 
they  carry  everything  from  mail  to  fresh  lettuce,  and 
perform  the  functions  of  a houseboat,  freight  steamer, 
village  gossip,  and  market  gardener.  Your  beefsteak 
of  to-morrow  stands  on  the  hoof  gazing  up  at  you 

48 


Hoisting  aboard  “the  beefsteak  of  to-morrow. 


THE  WEST  COASTERS 


from  the  hatchway  below,  and  on  the  upper  deck,  be- 
side the  shuffle-board,  barnyard  fowls,  housed  in  a 
double-decker  coop,  blink  reproachfully  through  the 
slats.  The  captain  is  likely  to  be  a British  “coaster,” 
the  officers  English  or  Chilian,  and  the  stewards 
Chilian  rotos,  who  look  as  though  they  would  be 
charmed  to  stick  a knife  through  one’s  ribs  for  half  a 
bottle  of  pisco.  There  are  no  tourists  in  the  North 
Atlantic  sense  of  the  word,  and  the  inhabitants  of  the 
ship,  practically  all  of  whom  speak  Spanish  and  stumble 
along  at  least  in  one  or  two  other  languages,  are  Ger- 
man, Yankee  and  North-of-England  drummers,  engi- 
neers bound  for  railroads  and  mines;  now  and  then 
some  little  swarthy  army  officer,  or  a native  merchant 
travelling  with  his  wife,  pallid  in  her  rice  powder, 
awed  and  quite  frightened  to  death  when  she  goes  into 
the  ship’s  cabin  with  all  its  strange  men. 

It  is  this  part  of  the  ocean,  between  the  Isthmus  and 
Peru,  which  suggested  to  the  old  Spaniards  the  name 
Pacific.  It  is  like  a mill  pond.  And  these  strange 
galleons,  with  their  chicken  coops  and  unhappy  steers 
and  unbranded  inhabitants,  mosey  along  through  the 
heat-shimmer  as  though  there  were  no  such  thing  as 
hurry  in  the  world.  An  engaging  laxity  pervades  one’s 
ship.  It  was  always  a mystery  to  me  just  how  ours 
was  navigated.  There  was  a “game  on”  in  the  cap- 
tain’s room  continuously,  and  no  matter  at  what  hour 
one  awoke  at  night,  one  always  seemed  to  catch  the 
chink  of  chips  coming  down  through  the  ventilator 
from  the  bridge.  The  other  officers  invariably  left  the 

49 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


table  before  the  meal  was  finished  so  that  they  could 
appropriate  the  deck  golf-implements  and  keep  them 
until  the  next  gong  rang.  We  rarely,  big  as  we  were, 
did  more  than  eight  knots,  and  whenever  it  was  found 
difficult  to  make  our  next  port  before  sunset,  we  would 
slow  down  and  come  in  the  next  morning.  It  is  a 
trifle  over  three  thousand  miles  from  Panama  down 
the  coast  to  Valparaiso,  and  the  journey  ought  to  be 
made  in  ten  or  twelve  days.  It  now  takes — although 
the  Peruvians  are  organizing  a faster  line — anywhere 
from  three  weeks  to  a month.  It  is  about  fifteen 
hundred  miles  from  Panama  to  Callao,  and  our  journey, 
with  stops  at  Guayaquil  and  little  ports  along  the 
coast,  consumed  a fortnight. 

Slow  as  they  are,  express  boats  cut  across  the  Gulf 
from  Panama  to  Guayaquil,  and  all  that  one  sees  of 
Ecuador  is  the  tropical  banks  of  the  Guayas  River  and 
the  walls  of  Guayaquil.  There  is  always  fever  here. 
There  were  twenty-one  cases  the  day  we  touched,  ac- 
cording to  “El  Grito  del  Pueblo,”  and  if  “The Cry  of  the 
People  ” admitted  that  many,  so  the  old  hands  opined, 
there  must  be  at  least  fifty  in  the  town.  We  con- 
tented ourselves  with  surveying  it  from  afar,  in  which 
way  it  is  very  pretty,  and  listened  to  tales  about  all  the 
good  men  who  had  “snuffed  it”  there.  There  are 
some  sixty  thousand  people  in  Guayaquil,  and  the 
town  is  the  one  doorway  from  this  almost  forgotten 
country  to  the  outside  world.  About  one-third  of  the 
chocolate  which  the  big  world  uses  comes  through 
Guayaquil,  and,  like  Colombia,  Ecuador  has  plenty 

50 


THE  WEST  COASTERS 


of  rubber  and  vegetable  ivory  and  things  in  the  valleys 
and  montana  land  of  the  interior.  But  it  is  as  yet  the 
least  finished  of  the  South  American  republics,  and  in 
spite  of  such  interesting  places  as  ancient  Quito,  where 
the  unhappy  Inca,  Atahualpa,  used  to  eat  off  gold 
plates,  and  where  to-day  you  will  find  plenty  of  agree- 
able and  quite  modern  people,  the  population  of  the 
country  is  only  about  1.5  to  the  square  mile,  and  what 
with  Indians  and  mestizos,  less  than  one  person  out  of 
every  ten  is  white. 

When  the  ship  sweeps  down  the  Guayas  River  on 
the  swift  Pacific  tide  and  passes  the  town  of  Tumbez 
— where  that  gifted  ruffian,  Pizarro,  landed  four  hun- 
dred years  ago  to  conquer  an  empire  with  one  hundred 
and  eighty  men — green  shores  are  left  behind.  For 
nearly  two  thousand  miles  southward,  until  close  to 
Valparaiso,  the  coast  line  is  as  bare  as  a desert  of 
Arizona.  On  this  western  slope  of  the  Andes  there  is 
no  rain.  It  is  always  in  sight  from  the  steamer  unless 
veiled  by  mists — bare,  tawny,  with  the  ramparts  of 
the  Andes  shouldering  up  and  up,  level  above  level, 
pale  and  amethystine,  to  the  white  snow-line.  Along 
the  foot  of  this  rampart,  pasted,  so  to  speak,  on  sand- 
flats  or  tacked  into  the  hillside,  are  little  towns,  each 
walled  away  from  the  other,  each  the  gateway  to  the 
steamy  interior,  or  to  a fertile  valley  made  by  the 
melting  snows,  and  set  in  the  midst  of  a wilderness  of 
bare  rock,  like  a green  tape  tacked  on  yellow  carpet. 
All  the  Peruvian  coast  is  situated  much  as  Boston  and 
New  York  and  Philadelphia  would  be  if  the  Rocky 

51 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

Mountains  rose  up  from  their  suburbs,  and  walled 
them  away  from  the  rest  of  the  country.  You  may 
leave  Callao,  for  instance,  at  breakfast  time,  and, 
riding  on  an  ordinary  railroad  over  which  freight  trains 
pass  daily,  emerge  from  the  car  early  in  the  afternoon, 
breathless  and  shaky,  in  the  frigid  air  of  Galera  Pass, 
one  thousand  feet  higher  than  Pike’s  Peak.  Some- 
times a little  arm  of  narrow-gauge  railway  reaches 
over  behind  the  mountains  for  the  green  things  of  the 
other  slope,  and  the  sugar  and  cotton,  but  there  are 
no  connections  north  and  south.  And  so  it  means  a 
good  deal  wThen  a ship  comes  in. 

Down  past  these  shore  towns — Paita,  Pacasmayo, 
Salaverry,  and  the  rest — our  lazy  galleon  dozed  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  Sometimes  there  were  a dozen  lighters 
full  of  freight  to  give  or  take;  sometimes  a few  score 
casks  of  rum  and  one  lone  passenger  carrying  his  bed 
with  him  would  delay  us  half  a day.  Sometimes  we 
swung  at  anchor  for  hours,  while  the  Peruvian  doctors 
with  sheaves  of  thermometers  took  the  temperature  of 
every  one  aboard,  and,  mustering  the  passengers  in  the 
music  room,  and  the  crew  aft,  felt  everybody’s  pulse. 
Except  at  Callao,  there  is  scarcely  a harbor  on  the 
Pacific  north  of  Valparaiso,  and  at  all  these  little  ports 
along  the  Colombian  and  Peruvian  coasts  ships  anchor 
half  a mile  or  so  off  shore  and  handle  their  freight  in 
lighters.  Away  off  here,  these  boxes  and  bales  and 
casks — with  their  “Kilo  68 — Bordeaux — South  Mil- 
waukee— Hamburg — F ragiles — Via  Panama — Chicago” 
— become  almost  flesh  and  blood.  We  would  lean  on 

52 


THE  WEST  COASTERS 


the  rail  while  they  came  thumping  up  out  of  the  hold, 
swung  overside  with  the  warning  “A-fra-jo!” — watch- 
ing by  the  hour,  just  as  one  might  sit  at  a cafe  table 
and  watch  the  people  go  by.  International  trade  be- 
came something  intimate,  human,  and  touchable. 
There  wrere  no  exports  or  imports ; there  were  Panama 
hats  and  sewing  machines  and  milling  machinery  and 
fresh  chocolate  and  cotton  cloth  and  pineapples.  A 
sheaf  of  polo  mallets  bound  for  Quito  went  off  with 
the  rest  at  Guayaquil.  Every  sling-load  had  its  new 
whisper.  The  fascination  of  barter  seized  everybody. 
We  all  became  Phoenicians.  Before  the  anchor  chains 
w’ere  taut,  shore  boats  loaded  with  sweets  and  fresh 
fruits — “pines”  and  chirimoyas  and  Panama  hats,  and 
candy  made  of  raw  cane-sugar  and  wrapped  in  banana 
leaves — were  bobbing  all  round  us.  Five  minutes 
after  the  gangway  was  let  down  the  ship  was  a floating 
bazaar.  Below,  steerage  and  stokers  were  buying  fruit 
and  dulces,  and  the  flat  cakes  of  unleavened,  pie-crusty 
bread  which  the  native  women  of  the  west-coast 
countries  are  forever  offering  you.  Along  the  deck 
they  were  bargaining  over  everything,  from  Panama 
hats,  as  fine  as  cloth  almost,  to  unsmokable  cigars,  and 
romances  which  would  have  turned  the  hair  of  Mr. 
Anthony  Comstock  white  in  a night.  Each  place  had 
its  characteristic  product.  Thus  Pisco  gives  its  name 
to  a white  brandy  much  affected  all  along  the  coast; 
other  places  had  their  fruits  or  the  curious  sugary 
native  chocolate.  Guayaquil  and  Paita  are  the  places 
for  Panama  hats. 


53 


TEE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

Buying  a hat  on  one  of  these  boats  is  an  elaborate 
game.  One  strolls  along  the  deck,  languidly,  until, 
passing  a group  of  fellow-passengers,  each  shouting  at 
the  vender  in  ferocious  pidgin-Spanish,  the  hat  man 
catches  one’s  eye  and,  observing  that  one  is  a person 
of  taste,  selects  a superior  specimen  from  the  bottom 
of  his  box.  How  much?  Setenta,  sehor.  What  ? 
Heaven  and  earth!  H ombre!  And  one  strolls  on 
down  the  deck  and  looks  over  the  rail,  more  languid 
than  ever,  at  the  far-off  lavender  mountains.  And 
yet,  in  the  most  natural  way,  half  an  hour  later,  he 
runs  across  you.  Promptly  out  comes  a hat,  your  hat. 
He  always  remembers,  no  matter  what  you  call  him, 
treasures  not  the  slightest  ill-will.  Mvoee  feeno,  sehor! 
And  only  thirty-five — just  cut  in  half.  One  is  not  in- 
sulting now,  only  tired  and  sad.  Hei-i-gh-ho!  How 
hot  the  day  is!  What — a hat?  No — no — too  much — 
too  much.  And  again  you  stroll  away.  Several  times 
this  is  repeated.  At  last  the  great  bell  aft  begins  its 
warning  clangor.  The  winch-engines  draw  up  their 
chains,  the  lighters  cast  off.  The  prosperous-looking 
Indian  dames — very  fine  with  their  black  hair  oiled 
and  combed  tightly  back,  their  freshly  laundered  calico 
dresses  trailing  the  deck — descend  the  gangway,  baskets 
empty,  dulces  and  chirimoyas  all  sold.  Their  boats, 
affectionately  named — Los  Tres  Hermanos — La  Rosa 
Maria — La  Joven  Victoria — sweep  up  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  swell,  and  their  husbands  or  sons  swing  them, 
laughing,  into  the  stern.  Breathless  appears  the  hat 
man.  Sehor!  Sehor!  The  hat — here  it  is — only  twenty 

54 


“For  nearly  two  thousand  miles  the  coast  is  as  bare  as  an  Arizona  desert.” 


THE  WEST  COASTERS 


now.  Twenty?  I’ll  give  you  fifteen.  The  hat  man 
looks  as  though  life  were  no  longer  worth  living.  Still 
— 0 well — bueno!  Here  it  is.  This?  No,  this  isn’t 
the  hat  we  were  talking  about — this  coarse-grained 
straw,  cleverly  enough  powdered  with  sulphur,  but 
wretched  at  that.  Ah!  Sehor  is  right.  So  it  isn’t. 
Here  is  the  hat — no?  Good — Adios!  Pleasant  voyage, 
senor!  Up  rattles  the  gangway,  the  lighter-men  yell 
jokes  at  the  stevedores,  the  smiling  native  women, 
their  stiff  calico  waists  slipping  off  their  healthy  brown 
bosoms,  wave  a good-by,  and  their  little  boys  dro 
their  oars  and  put  their  hands  to  their  ears  as  the  big 
boat  whistles  and  turns  seaward  to  leave  them  again 
in  their  isolation. 


CHAPTER  V 


THE  HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 

One  day  after  a fortnight  of  such  coasting  the  ship  sails 
round  a bare,  brown  island  and  into  a hazy,  tawny- 
bluish  harbor,  full  of  steamers  and  masts,  with  a war- 
ship at  anchor  here  and  there,  pelicans  swarming  about 
as  thick  as  blackbirds,  and  such  a prodigious  aspect  of 
business  afloat  and  ashore  in  comparison  with  the  toy 
towns  of  the  desert  coast  that  the  drowsy  pilgrim  feels 
he  must  almost  brace  up  to  meet  the  shock  of  the  real 
world.  This  is  Callao.  It  is  the  port  of  Lima,  the 
capital — only  nine  miles  up  the  valley  by  railroad  or 
trolley — and  the  gateway  into  central  Peru.  More  than 
a thousand  vessels  touch  here  each  year,  and  through 
it  passes  about  half  of  the  country’s  trade.  Earth- 
quakes and  fire  have  attacked  it,  the  Spaniards  bom- 
barded it  in  ’66,  fourteen  years  later  the  Chilians  left 
a little  when  they  got  through.  But  monuments  to 
its  heroes  are  taking  the  place  of  ruins  of  the  wars, 
thirty  thousand  people  do  business  in  this — as  it  were 
— “downtown”  of  ancient  Lima,  and  there  is  an  Eng- 
lish club,  from  the  balcony  of  which  commercial  exiles, 
reading  the  home  papers  and  drinking  the  home  drinks, 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 


gaze  out  to  sea  and  muse  sentimentally  on  the  lights 
and  songs  of  London  or  New  York,  or — according  to 
their  temperament — demonstrate  to  you  in  what  a lot 
of  places  millions  still  are  waiting  for  the  plucking  here 
in  Peru. 

The  strip  of  Peru  on  which  Callao  and  the  little  coast 
towns  lie  is  fifteen  hundred  miles  long,  and  extends 
from  twenty  to  eighty  miles  into  the  foothills.  Here 
are  plantations  of  coffee  and  sugar  and  cotton,  and 
fertile  land  only  waiting,  as  our  lands  in  the  West 
waited,  for  irrigation  to  wake  them  up.  Beyond,  for 
three  hundred  miles  or  so  eastward,  is  the  mountain 
region  with  its  mines  and  grazing  lands,  and  then  the 
rubber  country  of  the  montanas  sloping  down  to  the 
Amazon.  Altogether  there  is  a territory  about  three 
times  as  large  as  France,  and  to  traverse  its  tangled 
valleys  only  fourteen  hundred  miles  of  railroad.  As  a 
result,  the  rubber,  for  instance,  of  the  eastern  slope  is 
carried  to  Iquitos,  and  thence  by  steamers  down  the 
Amazon  clear  across  the  continent  to  the  Atlantic. 
Except  by  mule-back  or  canoe,  there  is  little  direct  com- 
munication between  the  interior  districts,  and  if,  as 
Mr.  Pepper  has  interestingly  pointed  out  in  one  of  his 
discussions  of  the  Pan-American  railroad,  a govern- 
ment official  should  be  transferred  from  Lima  to  the 
Department  of  Loreto  in  northeastern  Peru,  only 
about  thirteen  hundred  miles  away,  he  would  prefer 
to  journey  by  steamer  from  Callao  to  Panama,  from 
there  to  New  York,  thence  to  Para  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Amazon,  and  from  Para  by  steamer  up  the  Amazon 

57 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


three  thousand  miles  to  Iquitos — all  in  all,  a journey 
of  nearly  nine  thousand  miles. 

Such  grotesque  eccentricities  of  travel  suggest  what 
it  would  mean  to  have  the  short  arms  of  railway  which 
reach  into  the  interior  at  right  angles  to  the  coast, 
connected  by  an  up-and-down  system,  and  it  is  in  the 
performance  of  that  function  that  the  so-called  Pan- 
American  railroad  is  really  practicable.  We  shall  not, 
as  the  lyricists  of  the  Congress  of  1890  prophesied, 
“be  able  within  ten  years  to  buy  a through  ticket 
from  New  York  to  Buenos  Ayres,”  nor  ship  freight 
from  the  States  through  Central  America  to  the  other 
continent;  but  such  isolated  little  towns  as  these  on 
the  Peruvian  coast  will  be  looped  together  one  of  these 
days,  and  within  reasonable  limits  passengers  and 
freight  will  be  carried  north  and  south  where  now  there 
is  nothing  but  the  mule-road  and  the  llama  train.  The 
railroad  runs  now  from  Buenos  Ayres  fifteen  hundred 
miles  northward  to  the  border  of  Bolivia,  and  on  the 
Fourth  of  July,  190G,  at  Oruro,  American  engineers 
turned  over  the  first  spadeful  of  earth  for  a new  sys- 
tem which  will  eventually  connect  Peru  with  the 
Argentine. 

Of  all  the  railroads  of  this  part  of  the  world  that  from 
Lima  up  to  Oroya  is  the  most  extraordinary.  It  is 
still,  after  pictures  of  its  bridges  have  served  as  a 
stock  geography  illustration  for  a generation,  probably 
the  most  impressive  piece  of  railroad  engineering  in 
the  wTorld.  Built  in  the  days  when  Peru  was  rich 
and  reckless,  it  stands  a monument  of  that  time 

58 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 


and  of  that  gifted  Yankee  soldier  of  fortune,  Henry 
Meiggs. 

Meiggs  was  born  in  New  York  State,  and  after  mak- 
ing and  losing  several  fortunes  in  the  East,  he  took  a 
shipload  of  lumber  round  the  Horn  to  San  Francisco 
during  the  gold  days  and  sold  it  for  twenty  times  its 
cost.  He  built  sawmills  and  made  a great  deal  of 
money,  got  into  difficulties  again , and  finally  fled  with 
his  family  on  one  of  his  own  schooners,  leaving  behind 
him  a million  dollars’  worth  of  debts.  He  went  to 
Chile,  built  bridges  and  railroads  for  the  government, 
and  again  became  a millionaire.  Then  he  went  to 
Peru  and  started  to  build  railroads  there.  Meiggs  was 
not  an  engineer,  but  he  could  get  engineers  to  believe 
in  him  and  work  for  him,  and  he  had  energy  and  ideas 
and  the  courage  of  his  imagination.  After  floating 
$29,000,000  in  bonds  he  started  the  Oroya  road  in 
1869.  He  did  not  live  to  finish  it,  but  he  completed 
the  hardest  part.  He  carried  it  up  the  eyebrows  of 
the  Andes  from  the  seacoast  to  the  icy  galleries  of  the 
upper  Cordillera,  and  he  paid  all  his  debts.  The 
legislature  of  California  removed  him  from  the  danger 
of  penalties  for  misconduct,  and  he  died  in  Lima  in 
1877. 

The  Oroya  road  is  not  only  the  highest  in  the  world, 
but  there  is  no  other  which  lifts  its  breathless  pas- 
sengers to  any  such  altitude  in  such  an  appallingly  short 
space  of  time.  The  narrow  gauge  over  Marshall’s 
Pass  in  Colorado,  for  example,  climbs  to  the  twelve- 
thousand-foot  level,  but  to  get  there  from  sea  level 

59 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


one  crosses  the  continent  and  creeps  up  the  long  ascent 
from  the  Mississippi  to  the  Great  Divide.  To  climb 
as  the  Oroya  climbs,  a Hudson  River  train  leaving  New 
York  would  have  to  ascend,  half  an  hour  before  it 
reached  Albany,  a distance  one  thousand  feet  greater 
than  that  from  sea  level  to  the  summit  of  Pike’s  Peak. 

It  was  at  seven  o’clock  on  one  of  those  tawny-hazy 
mornings  which  come  so  often  in  Lima  that  we  started 
up  the  Rimac  Valley  for  the  roof  of  this  Peruvian 
world.  It  was  the  second  week  in  June — wdnter  in 
Lima — yet  the  air  was  tepid  and  drowsy-warm,  a little 
like  our  Indian  summer  at  home.  For  an  hour  or  so 
we  wound  through  a wide  irrigated  valley,  fat  and  pros- 
perous-looking, with  plantations  of  sugar-cane  and  cot- 
ton fenced  in  by  mud  walls,  the  roofs  of  a hacienda  show- 
ing now  and  then  over  the  green.  Beyond  that  the 
bare  brown  mountains — high  enough,  it  seemed,  yet 
really  no  more  than  foot-hills — shut  in  and  shouldered 
upward,  tier  on  tier  behind  each  other,  yellow  and 
terra-cotta  and  tawny-brown,  occasionally  flashing 
through  a slit  in  their  flanks  the  snow  shoulders  of 
peaks  miles  and  miles  away  to  which  we  were  to  climb. 
Steadily  the  train — not  unlike  the  old  New  York  “L” 
trains — creaked  and  panted  upward;  downward  the 
busy  Rimac  rattled  merrily. 

It  had  a right  to.  Descending  from  the  snow  line, 
it  had  watered  the  llamas  and  cattle  of  the  bleak 
table-lands;  below  that,  split  into  slivers  of  silver  and 
scrupulously  carried  along  the  highline,  it-  had  fed  the 
shelf-like  plots  of  barley  and  corn  of  the  temperate 

60 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 


levels;  the  slivers  had  joined,  split  again  lower  down, 
watered  the  orange  and  lemon  trees  up  among  the 
rocks,  joined  again  and  made  the  electricity  for  Lima’s 
trolley-cars  and  electric  lights.  And  now,  at  the  end 
of  its  journey,  it  traversed  this  eminently  agreeable 
valley.  Even  that.it  had  made.  Without  the  Rimac 
the  old  City  of  Kings  could  never  have  existed,  the 
cathedrals  would  never  have  been  built,  all  the  splendid 
viceroys  and  pretty  ladies  and  the  mercurial  burghers 
could  not  have  lived. 

The  broad  valley  narrowed,  the  naked  rocks  closed 
in,  the  muggy  blanket  that  lies  on  Lima  and  the  coast 
thinned  and  cleared.  In  the  rarer  air  the  nervous 
pantings  of  the  little  locomotive  echoed  between  the 
terra-cotta  walls.  Thirty-five  miles  from  Callao — 
Choisica — twenty-eight  .hundred  feet  above  the  sea; 
ten  miles  onward  and  upward,  another  station,  four 
thousand  six  hundred  now;  two  miles  more,  five  thou- 
sand now,  San  Bartolomeo  and  the  first  “switchback.” 

The.  switchback  is  the  characteristic  device  of  the 
road  that  Meiggs  built.  When  he  reached  a tight  place, 
instead  of  climbing  up  an  abnormally  heavy  grade  by 
the  aid  of  a cog-wheel,  or  tunnelling  and  wriggling 
round  circuitously,  he  simply  zigzagged  up  the  face  of 
the  mountain  in  the  same  way  that  a man  makes  a 
trail.  When  there  is  no  room  to  turn,  the  track  runs 
as  far  as  it  can  go,  then  backs  out  on  a “V”  and  climbs 
upward  until  a suitable  place  is  reached  to  reverse  on 
another  “V”  and  go  forward  again.  The  time  that  is 
lost  in  stopping  and  switching  is,  of  course,  very  great, 

61 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

but  the  time  and  money  that  were  saved  in  construct- 
ing the  track  were  also  great,  and  the  way  a train  of 
heavy  cars  fairly  walks  right  up  the  face  of  a precipice 
with  the  help  of  these  “V’s”  is  startling  to  see.  Seven 
such  switchbacks  lift  the  train  over  difficult  levels, 
eight  spider-web  bridges  are  thrown  across  the  canon, 
and  there  are  more  than  thirty  tunnels. 

Five  thousand  feet — six — seven  thousand  five  hun- 
dred— over  the  Wart  Water  bridge,  through  the  Cuesta 
Blanca,  Surco,  Challapa,  at  last  the  little  town  of 
Matucana,  and  half  an  hour  for  almuerzo,  in  the  clear 
noon  sunshine  seventy-seven  hundred  feet  above  the 
sea. 

It  was  fete  day  at  Matucana,  and  in  front  of  the 
yellow  mud  church  in  the  tiny  plaza  a band  was  play- 
ing and  a young  man  was  enthusiastically  setting  off 
sky-rockets  and  Roman  candles  in  the  sunshine.  The 
band  was  composed  of  one  man  and  four  small  boys 
who  had  to  expend  so  much  thought  and  energy  in 
supporting  the  weight  of  their  horns  that  nothing  was 
left  for  keeping  the  time,  and  the  sun  showed  so  daz- 
zlingly  in  the  crystalline  air  that  the  fireworks  became 
only  foolish  fizzes  and  an  all  but  invisible  squirt  of 
smoke.  But  the  young  man  knew  that  the  congrega- 
tion of  the  little  mud  church  had  bought  them  with 
their  good  money,  and  that  the  kind  saint  in  whose 
honor  they  were  being  exploded  could  see  the  sparks 
and  colored  balls,  even  though  they  were  invisible  to 
mortal  eyes,  and  so  he  lit  them,  one  after  another,  in- 
dustriously and  with  complete  self-forgetfulness,  even 

02 


The  little  girls  of  Matucana  bearing  their  gifts  from  a church  festival. 


A typical  mountain  town  in  one  of  the  transverse  valleys  of  the  Peruvian 

Andes. 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 


to  holding  the  little  sky-rockets  in  his  hand  and  allow- 
ing the  sparks  to  shower  over  the  bare  skin  until  they 
gathered  courage  timorously  to  sail  up  a few  feet  and 
dive  over  into  the  plaza.  And  the  little  band  tooted 
bravely  on  until  the  last  centavo’s  worth  of  powder 
had  fizzed  away,  and  then,  with  all  the  small  boys  of 
the  village  escorting  it,  tramped  to  a house  where  the 
Mayor  lived,  and  we  left  them  there,  still  wrestling 
with  the  tune  as  the  train  panted  away. 

The  station  made  one  side  of  the  plaza,  the  little 
church  was  opposite,  and  there  were  houses  on  the 
other  sides.  It  was  like  a city  plaza  and  a cathedral 
that  hadn’t  grown  up.  In  every  one  of  these  moun- 
tain towns  you  will  find  just  such  a little  mud  church, 
with  its  old-world  Spanish  facade  and  two  or  three 
funny  old  bells.  They  seem  very  real  and  genuine 
somehow,  as  though  simple  folks  had  built  them  with 
their  own  hands — as  indeed  they  have,  and  the  same 
faint  musty  perfume  drifts  into  the  thin  Andean  sun- 
shine as  floats  from  the  dim  interiors  of  Cologne  and 
Antwerp  and  Rome. 

On  one  side  of  the  toy  plaza,  between  the  station  and 
the  church,  was  a house  with  a balcony  overhanging 
the  street,  upon  which,  a moment  after  the  train  pulled 
in,  appeared  two  ladies  and  a very  superior  silk  parasol. 

They  leaned  on  the  balcony  rail  under  the  silk 
parasol,  smiling  and  talking  vivaciously,  just  as  though 
there  were  always  lots  to  see  and  lots  of  people  passing, 
and  that  wasn’t  the  parasol  of  Matucana,  and  as  though 
they  always  stood  there  in  just  that  politely  interested 

63 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


way,  whether  or  not  the  train  came  in.  They  seemed 
so  specially  lovely,  buried  away  here  in  the  upper 
mountains  with  nothing  to  look  at  but  that  sun-baked 
little  plaza  and  the  endless  ascending  rocks,  that  it 
seemed  as  though  every  man  who  passed  beneath  the 
balcony  should  have  a hat  with  a long  white  plume  on 
it  to  sweep  from  his  head;  and,  urged  on  by  this  im- 
pulse and  held  back  by  one’s  northern  notions  of  not 
bowing  at  pretty  ladies  until  they  bow  first,  it  was 
extremely  hard  to  know  what  to  do.  And  one  wasn’t 
at  all  cheered  afterward  to  be  reminded  that  in  Spanish- 
American  countries  it  is  the  man  who  starts  the  bowing, 
and  that  undoubtedly  the  ladies  under  the  parasol 
wTere  hurt  and  offended,  and  confirmed  in  the  belief 
that  gringos  had  no  manners. 

There  was  a sort  of  Christmas  tree  in  the  little  church, 
and  after  mass  was  said  and  the  fireworks  exploded, 
all  the  little  ninas,  hushed  but  extremely  excited, 
gathered  round  it,  and  a pale  young  woman  in  black, 
with  sad  Spanish  eyes,  distributed  presents  such  as 
little  girls  get  in  Matucana,  I suppose,  when  they  are 
very  religious.  When  each  had  a dulce  or  something 
tightly  clasped,  the  sad  young  woman  arranged  them 
in  line,  two  by  two,  and  they  marched  across  the 
plaza,  solemnly,  wrhile  the  pretty  ladies  looked  down 
and  smiled  from  under  the  only  parasol  in  Matucana. 

Eight  thousand  feet — nine — ten — over  the  Quebrada 
Negra,  more  spider-web  bridges,  more  switchbacks,  the 
tunnels  of  the  Little  Hell  opening  at  either  end  of  a 
bridge  spanning  a chasm  two  thousand  feet  deep.  As 

04 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 

the  train  wound  and  creaked  along  the  forehead  of  the 
mountain  one  could  look  down  on  the  roofs  of  villages 
miles  below,  ant-people  and  ant-donkey  trains,  and 
the  multitudinous  little  fields  fenced  in  with  thick 
mud  walls  which  made  the  valley  floor  a gigantic 
waffle-iron.  These  are  tilled  now,  but  above  them,  on 
a level  with  one’s  eyes,  and  up  and  up,  seemingly  to 
the  very  top  of  some  of  the  mountains,  were  the  old 
terraced  fields  of  the  Incas,  grass-grown  now  with  the 
turf  of  centuries.  They  look  like  innumerable  sheep 
paths.  By  means  of  these  pantry-shelf  terraces,  the 
patient  aborigines  used  to  carry  fields  right  up  to  the 
summit  in  the  warmer  altitudes,  and  support  such  a 
population  as  the  country  has  never  come  near  nourish- 
ing since  the  conquerors  came. 

Those  were  glad  days  of  socialism  and  municipal 
ownership.  All  the  land  that  was  not  set  apart  for 
the  Emperor  or  the  support  of  the  temples  and  priest- 
hood was  divided  up  per  capita  among  the  people.  It 
was  still  the  property  of  the  State,  but  when  a man 
married — and  there  were  no  bachelors — he  received 
enough  land  to  support  himself  and  his  wife.  Another 
piece  was  given  him  for  every  child.  He  was  not  al- 
lowed to  sell  or  buy,  and  every  year  an  inventory  was 
taken,  and  each  man’s  possessions  added  to  or  de- 
creased according  to  the  size  of  his  family.  The  old 
terraces  are  mostly  in  disuse  now,  but  the  fields  and 
groves  of  the  lower  levels  still  use  some  of  the  old  irri- 
gation troughs.  They  were  cut  in  the  rocks  by  a people 
who  knew  neither  cement  nor  iron  pipe,  but  they 

65 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

follow  the  high  lines  as  neatly  as  though  plotted  with 
a transit — sometimes,  as  the  cars  creep  along  a canon 
wall  half-way  to  the  top,  you  can  see  one  on  the  oppo- 
site side,  carrying  its  silver  ribbon  for  miles  along  the 
face  of  the  yellow  rock,  like  a rain-trough  running 
across  the  blank  wall  of  a skyscraper. 

More  spider-web  bridges — more  switchbacks — and 
ever  the  air  growing  clearer  and  thinner  and  more  cold. 
At  Cacray  the  train  was  eleven  thousand  feet  above 
Callao;  at  Chicla,  lower  switchback,  12,215;  at  Chicla, 
upper  switchback,  12,697.  The  fields  and  gardens 
were  gone  now,  the  bleak  table-land  country  appeared, 
and  people  whose  hearts  or  nerves  were  bothersome 
began  to  have  siroclie.  The  region  was  not  unlike  parts 
of  Montana  and  some  of  the  country  along  the  Yellow- 
stone and  Shoshone — heightened  and  exaggerated. 
Vesuvius  could  have  been  set  on  the  floor  of  some  of 
the  valleys,  and  its  summit  would  not  have  reached 
above  their  snow  shoulders.  Below  crawled  burros 
and  llama  trains  carrying  silver  and  copper  ore.  Along- 
side and  above  llamas  grazed  the  bleak  flanks  after 
their  frugal  fashion. 

The  llama  is  one  of  those  gifted  animals  which  can 
live  on  nothing,  and  by  digesting  it  several  times,  like 
a camel,  live  on  it  for  a long  time.  He  has  almost 
solved  the  problem  of  perpetual  motion.  He  doesn’t 
get  thirsty  when  there  is  no  water,  and  he  supplies  fuel 
where  there  is  no  wood.  He  will  carry  exactly  one 
hundred  pounds  with  complete  indifference  and  docil- 
ity, and  if  you  put  an  ounce  more  on  his  shaggy  back 

GG 


HIGHEST  RAIL  ROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 

he  will  lie  down,  and  until  the  ounce  is  taken  off  receive 
with  equal  indifference  his  driver’s  shouts  and  kicks. 
Yet  it  is  by  such  primitive  vehicles  that  most  of  the  ore 
from  these  Andean  mines  is  carried  to  the  smelters. 
At  Casapalca,  thirteen  thousand  six  hundred  feet,  was 
the  big  smelter  of  this  neighborhood,  and  there  in  their 
mud-wall  corral,  were  these  absurd  sheep,  lifting  their 
ostrich-like  necks  and  viewing  the  noisy  industry  with 
their  look  of  timorous  disdain. 

Fourteen  thousand — the  chimneys  of  Casapalca’s 
smelters  were  pins  stuck  in  the  carpet  of  the  valley 
miles  below — fifteen  thousand — six  hundred  feet  more, 
and  the  train  climbed  up  and  over,  and  rested  on  the 
top  of  the  cold,  wind-swept  Andean  roof.  All  about 
were  peaks  and  blankets  of  snow.  From  the  station 
you  could  almost  have  thrown  a stone  to  the  height  of 
Mont  Blanc.  It  was  only  one  hundred  and  thirty-six 
feet  short  of  it. 

But  one  had  little  desire  to  throw  stones.  One  rose 
painstakingly  and  walked  with  care.  Fifteen  thousand 
feet  is  a good  bit  of  a jump  to  take  between  breakfast 
time  and  luncheon.  Some  of  our  companions,  muffled 
in  ponchos , had  been  coiled  up  like  seasick  passengers 
ever  since  we  passed  the  belt  where  oranges  grew. 
The  only  difficulty  I noticed  was  a slight  giddiness 
when  I rose  and  started  down  the  aisle.  The  man 
with  me  drank  a cup  of  hot  tea  in  the  little  tambo  ad- 
joining the  station  and  went  as  pale  as  a sheet.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  slept  like  a babe  while  I stayed 
awake  all  night..  Those  who  live  at  such  heights  de- 

67 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


velop  extraordinary  lung  capacity  and  brilliant  com- 
plexions, dangerous  as  it  is  for  them  to  try  to  exist 
afterward  in  the  low  altitudes.  The  young  girl  who 
served  coffee  and  lived  up  here  all  the  time  looked  hard 
as  nails,  and  her  cheeks  were  like  red  russet  apples. 

Behind  the  station  Mount  Meiggs  climbs  up  another 
two  thousand  feet,  whence — through  air  so  crystalline 
that  one  might  fancy  one  could  walk  to  the  summit  in 
half  an  hour — it  looks  down  on  both  sides  of  the  divide. 
To  the  west  is  the  long  descent,  to  the  east  the  chilly 
plateaus  and  snow  valleys  of  the  Andean  treasure-land. 
From  the  Galera  tunnel,  which  carries  the  train  through 
to  the  other  slope,  it  is  thirty-two  miles — down-hill 
about  three  thousand  five  hundred  feet — to  Oroya, 
where  the  railroad  used  to  stop.  And  from  there  it  is 
eighty-seven  more  across  the  Junin  pampa — where 
Bolivar  whipped  the  Spaniards  in  ’24 — to  Cerro  de 
Pasco,  where  the  American  mining  syndicate  is  pre- 
paring to  get  rich.  They  have  spent  at  least  ten 
millions  already  in  merely  getting  ready,  and  the  fact 
that  they  have  threatened  to  build  another  Oroya 
Railroad  clear  down  to  the  coast  suggests  the  notion 
they  have  of  the  quantity  in  which  these  riches  are  to 
come.  Some  of  their  men  were  on  the  train,  down 
from  the  States  on  a three  years’  contract — to  live 
and  work  up  there,  fourteen  thousand  feet  in  the  air. 
It  seemed  like  Montana  again,  on  the  eastern  slope, 
except  that  instead  of  steers  grazing  on  the  range  there 
were  llamas,  and  it  was  characteristic  that  as  we  slid 
down-hill  through  the  gathering  twilight  I should  find 

68 


At  the  summit  of  the  Oroya  Railroad,  15,005  feet  above  sea  level. 


Along  the  line  of  the  Oroya  Railroad  in  Peru. 


HIGHEST  RAILROAD  IN  THE  WORLD 


myself  talking  with  a Yankee  drummer  who  narrated 
with  heartfelt  fervor  the  difficulties  of  getting  the 
irresponsible  Peruvians  to  pay  for  sewing-machines 
on  the  installment  plan. 

The  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  sierras  when  we 
pulled  into  Oroya,  and  it  was  very  cold.  In  the  smoky 
glimmer  of  the  station-lamps  husky  white  men  with 
northern  faces,  in  corduroys  and  sweaters,  grinned  a 
welcome.  They  led  the  way  across  the  street  to  the 
gloomy  stone  barracks  that  did  for  a hotel.  The  air 
of  its  rooms,  innocent  of  heat  as  most  lodging  places, 
even  in  the  coldest  Andes,  are  wont  to  be,  pierced  the 
very  marrow  of  bones  softened  by  the  lotus  air  of  the 
coast. 

But  there  was  a cheerful  dining-room  with  an  ample 
dinner  and  a cheerful  bar-room  with  every  kind  of 
bottle  known  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  race  ranged  along  its 
walls,  and  a little  hot  stove,  in  front  of  which  bronzed 
gentlemen  of  versatile  experience  took  their  turns  at 
standing  and  telling  tall  tales  of  treasure,  of  the  white 
Indians  of  the  upper  Orinoco,  how  we  could,  or  couldn’t, 
dig  the  Panama  Canal.  Outside  the  dusk  deepened. 
The  burro  and  llama  trains,  from  who  knows  what 
buried  valley  of  the  Cordillera,  had  shed  their  burdens, 
and  their  cholo  and  Indian  drivers,  muffled  in  neck- 
scarfs  and  ponchos,  were  herding  them  into  corrals  in 
the  frosty  twilight.  Light  began  to  glimmer  from  the 
low  doors  of  the  mud-houses;  through  one  of  them, 
where  a handful  of  dusky  heads  showed  in  the  glow  of 
a lamp,  squeaked  a phonograph,  and  presently  a tenor 

69 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


voice  singing  I Pagliacci  sobbed  out  into  the  night.  It 
took  one  back  to  the  capital,  down  that  wonderful 
slope,  from  glacier  to  bleak  plateau,  plateau  to  sunny 
village,  village  to  orange  orchard,  orchard  to  steamy 
plantation,  the  city  and  the  sea;  down,  down,  valley 
yawning  at  the  foot  of  valley — a hundred  miles,  and 
always  down.  The  moon  came  up  over  the  jagged 
heights  that  shut  in  Oroya.  It  shone  so  big  and  near 
and  dazzling  bright  that  one  felt  one  could  almost 
climb  the  rocks  and  touch  it.  The  stars  hung  in  the 
crystalline  sky  like  arc  lamps.  It  was,  indeed,  the  roof 
of  the  world. 


10 


CHAPTER  VI 

t 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 

At  the  end  of  the  driveway  known  as  the  Ninth  of 
December,  where,  late  every  Thursday  and  Sunday 
afternoon,  the  gente  decente  of  Lima  may  be  seen  at 
their  best,  stands  the  monument  to  Colonel  Francisco 
Bolognesi,  who  was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Arica  during 
the  great  war  with  the  Chilians  nearly  thirty  years 
ago.  Bolognesi  and  his  two  thousand  Peruvians  were 
surrounded  by  twice  their  number  of  the  enemy,  and 
when  called  upon  to  surrender,  refused.  uAl  ultimo 
cartucho!" — “to  the  last  cartridge” — said  Bolognesi. 
So  the  Chilians  attacked,  bombarding  the  town  from 
their  squadron  in  the  harbor,  storming  the  morro  and 
the  height  above  the  town,  occupied  by  Bolognesi  and 
his  men.  The  Peruvians  fought  as  their  leader  had 
promised,  until  their  ammunition  was  exhausted;  then 
they  fought  hand  to  hand.  Just  what  happened  at 
the  end  none  of  the  reports  of  the  battle  which  I have 
read  take  the  trouble  to  say,  but  what  the  Peruvian 
of  this  generation  believes,  what  the  man  in  the  street 
or  the  steamship  smoke-room  will  tell  you,  is  that  the. 
Peruvians  not  only  fought  to  the  last  cartridge  but 

71 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


died  to  the  last  man;  that  Bolognesi’s  lieutenant, 
Ugarte,  rather  than  surrender,  spurred  his  horse  off 
the  cliff  that  dropped  sheer  seven  hundred  feet  to  the 
sea,  while  Bolognesi  himself  died  where  he  stood,  and 
fell  with  his  arms  wrapped  about  the  flag. 

He  has  become  a legendary  hero  now — this  Latin- 
Peruvian,  and  his  lieutenant, — like  that  Teuton-Peru- 
vian,  Grau,  who  performed  such  prodigies  at  sea  in 
the  same  war,  and  whose  statue  stands  in  the  square 
at  Callao,  nine  miles  away.  On  a bookshop  wall  in 
Arequipa,  far  up  in  the  interior,  I saw  a poster  picturing 
Ugarte  spurring  his  horse  off  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  In 
the  fire-engine  house  at  Mollendo — a village  of  stucco 
and  corrugated  iron  stuck  on  a bare  hillside  of  the 
southern  coast,  with  a thunderous  surf  forever  pound- 
ing at  its  feet — I saw  a wandering  troupe  of  players  one 
night.  It  was  warm  and  crowded  in  the  little  engine- 
house,  the  lamps  smoked,  and  that  “aplaudido  tenor 
comico  nacional,  Sanchez  Osorio,”  did  not  seem  so 
funny  to  us,  perhaps,  as  he  did  to  the  inhabitants  of 
Mollendo,  who  have  nothing  much  to  do  from  month 
to  month  but  watch  the  freighters  anchored  off  shore, 
kill  fleas,  and  now  and  then  bury  another  victim  of 
bubonic  plague  in  the  wind-swept  little  cemetery  on 
the  top  of  the  hill.  So  we  left  before  the  performance 
was  over  and  went  to  bed,  but  just  as  we  were  getting 
drowsy,  lulled  by  the  steady  boom  of  the  surf — which 
is  something  tremendous  in  these  parts — there  was  a 
great  hubbub  in  the  engine-house  across  the  street,  and 
much  stamping  and  cheers.  It  kept  up  for  a long  time, 

72 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


with  quiet  intervals  in  which  we  could  hear  a tenor 
voice  ringing  out  long  reverberating  words.  They 
were  cheering  that  “notable  spectacle”  with  which  the 
programme  had  promised  the  entertainment  should 
end,  “a  monologue  in  original  verse  entitled  ‘A  Soldier 
of  Peru,  or  the  Martyrs  of  Arica,’  dedicado  a la  gloriosa 
memoria  de  los  heroes  Bolognesi  y Alfonso  Ugarte.” 

When  the  war  between  Chili  and  Peru  began,  Peru 
was  the  dominant  power  of  the  west  coast.  She  was 
wealthy,  her  army  and  navy  were  supposed  to  be  the 
strongest,  her  capital  city  had  all  the  prestige  which 
attached  to  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Inquisition,  the 
home  of  the  viceroys,  the  aristocracy  which  preserved 
best  the  blood  and  traditions  of  the  conquerors.  When 
the  war  ended,  she  was  beaten  and  broken.  Her  ships 
were  captured  or  sunk,  her  fighting  men  gone;  her 
seaports,  even  to  their  lighthouses,  razed,  her  proud 
old  capital  sacked  by  the  invaders.  The  enemy’s 
horses  had  trampled  over  its  parks,  the  enemy’s  soldiers 
had  bunked  in  its  ancient  library,  and — so  they  will 
tell  you  in  Lima — lit  their  cigarrillos  with  the  illumi- 
nated pages  of  precious  old  books.  It  was  merely  an- 
other of  those  examples  of  the  old  succumbing  to  the 
new;  vivacity  and  grace — and,  perhaps,  the  accom- 
panying incompetence — crushed  by  fresh  strength  and 
preparedness. 

The  Chilians  were  proud  enough  in  those  days  to  be 
called  the  Yankees  of  South  America.  They  ended  the 
war  masters  of  the  west  coast.  They  pushed  their 
coast-line  many  hundred  miles  farther  north,  they 

73 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


took  away  from  Bolivia  her  Pacific  outlet  and  locked 
her  up  inland;  they  took  away  from  Peru  what  they 
went  to  war  to  get — her  incredibly  rich  province  of 
Tarapaca.  Two  more  of  Peru’s  provinces,  Tacna  and 
Arica,  Chile  was  to  hold  for  ten  years,  at  the  end  of 
which  time  the  people  of  the  provinces  themselves 
were  to  determine  by  a vote  to  which  country  they 
were  to  belong.  When  the  ten  years  wrere  ended  in 
1893,  Peru,  still  weak  from  the  war,  and  further  dis- 
tressed at  the  time  by  revolution,  had  no  power  to 
force  the  holding  of  this  plebiscite.  Chile  did  nothing 
— the  people  of  the  disputed  provinces  still  being 
strongly  Peruvian — to  bring  it  about.  Nothing  has 
yet  been  done,  probably  nothing  ever  will  be.  No- 
body outside  of  Peru  believes  that  Chile  will  ever  give 
up  the  captured  territory  unless  forced  to  do  so.  There 
are  no  indications  at  present  that  Peru  could  furnish 
such  power.  From  the  nitrate  provinces  which  Chile 
took  from  Peru  she  has  already  collected,  in  export 
duties  alone,  some  three  hundred  million  dollars ; with 
what  was  once  Peru’s  property  she  supports  her  strong 
army  and  navy  and  pays  almost  all  her  expenses; 
nitrate  has  been  such  an  easy  road  to  wealth  that  Chile 
has  hardly  bothered  with  anything  else. 

“In  twenty-five  years  more,”  so  your  Peruvian  host 
will  talk,  as  you  stand  there  near  Bolognesi’s  statue, 
with  the  carriage  chains  jangling  by — “in  twenty-five 
years  they  will  take  out  forty  million  tons- more  of 
saltpetre — three  billion  dollars  Chilian — a billion  and 
a half  of  export  duties.  No  nation” — and  as  he  grinds 

74 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


the  steel  into  the  wound,  in  a sort  of  pride  of  pain,  he 
throws  in  with  the  comparatively  little  lost  through  a 
treaty  unfulfilled,  all  that  won  by  the  Chilians,  openly, 
by  strength  of  arms — -“I  tell  you  no  nation  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world  ever  paid  such  tribute!  The  greatest 
war  indemnity  recorded  by  history  was  that  paid  by 
France  to  Germany  after  the  Franco-Prussian  War — 
five  billion  francs.  The  tribute  exacted  by  Chile 
amounts  to  five  billion  six  hundred  and  seventy-five 
million  francs,  of  which  our  part  was  four  billion  four 
hundred  and  forty  million.  And  the  Frenchmen  paid 
one  hundred  and  thirty-one  francs  per  head.  We  paid 
— each  man,  woman,  and  child — fourteen  hundred  and 
eighty  francs.  Their  indemnity  meant  only  two  years’ 
public  expenses;  ours  meant  public  expenses  for  one 
hundred  and  forty-eight  years!” 

I do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  Chilians  were  wicked 
wolves  in  this  war,  nor  that  Peru  was  not  guilty 
of  some  pretty  shifty  business  in  her  anti-Chilian  over- 
tures to  Bolivia;  I am  only  undertaking  to  suggest 
the  Peruvian  point  of  view.  Out  of  defeat  and  bitter- 
ness such  as  this  the  new  Peru  is  springing,  the 
industrial  Peru  of  sugar  and  silver,  cotton  and  copper. 
It  is  the  new  Peru  which  set  up  a gold  standard, 
which  is  drilling  oil  wells,  making  roads,  studying 
subsoil  irrigation,  building  faster  steamships,  bringing 
millions  of  dollars  of  American  capital  to  its  Andean 
mines.  The  statisticians  will  tell  you  that  the  value 
of  Peru’s  exports  has  increased  in  the  past  eight 
years  from  less  than  fourteen  millions  of  dollars  to 

75 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


more  than  twenty-eight.  And  that  seems  a big  and 
important  thing.  But  your  Limenan  host  will  tell  you, 
as  you  watch  the  victorias  roll  by,  that  five  years 
ago  there  was  scarcely  one  such  carriage  and  pair  in 
town. 

“Fifty-four,  senor,”  says  he  impressively,  “fifty-four 
in  the  last  two  years.  You  can  see  the  lading-bills  in 
the  custom-house.”  That,  when  you  think  of  what  it 
implies,  seems  important,  too.  And  as  we  are  con- 
cerned here  not  so  much  with  statistics  as  with 
people,  and  how  they  feel  and  think,  I have  told 
of  the  statue  of  Bolognesi  because,  in  a way,  it  is 
Peru’s  very  heart  turned  inside  out  and  set  up  there 
in  bronze  and  stone. 

In  most  countries  in  such  a public  place,  where 
carriages  parade  and  pretty  ladies  come  to  take  the 
air  and  show  their  dresses,  you  find  the  statue  of  some 
conquering  hero,  sword  aloft,  his  war  horse  rearing, 
front  hoofs  pawing  the  air — the  image  of  martial 
strength  and  victory.  The  statue  which  stands  on  the 
top  of  this  column  is  that  of  a beaten  soldier;  his  body 
is  swaying  and  about  to  fall,  his  right  hand  grips  a 
useless  revolver,  his  left  clasps  the  battle  flag — every 
line  suggests  hopelessness  and  defeat.  It  is  he  who 
looks  down  on  the  procession  as  it  rolls  round  and 
round,  on  the  big  Chilian  horses  stepping  high,  the 
young  men  ogling  the  ninas  as  they  drive  by.  The 
band  sounds  in  the  distance.  The  children,  with  their 
backs  to  the  driver,  in  half  stockings  and  big  black 
patent-leather  hats,  sit  straight  and  solemn,  the  pale 

7G 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


Peruvian  ladies  look  languidly  at  space  out  of  their 
black,  sad  eyes.  And  this  little  parade  of  the  Limenans 
comes  to  mean  rather  more  than  some  others  for  they, 
too,  have  had  their  Sedan  and  siege  of  Paris;  they, 
too,  have  lost  an  Alsace  and  Lorraine. 

Of  all  the  South  American  capitals  Lima  best  pre- 
serves in  touchable  wood  and  stone,  in  the  very  air  of 
it,  the  old  Spain  transplanted  by  the  conquerors. 
Pizarro  himself  founded  it,  in  1535,  and  started  then 
walls  which  stand  to-day.  Through  these  streets  the 
invaders  dragged  their  precious  falconets,  and  Spanish 
cavaliers  in  complete  mail,  clanked  impressively  gen- 
erations before  Hudson  sailed  past  the  island  which 
is  now  New  York.  When  a horse  was  almost  as  strange 
a sight  in  the  New  World  as  a dinotherium,  Pizarro’s 
cavalry  galloped  out  toward  the  enemy  with  their  war 
bells  jangling  on  their  metal  breastplates;  priests  of 
the  Church  swung  their  censers  and  recited  the  exsurge 
Domine  as  the  battle  opened,  nearly  a century  before 
the  Fathers  landed  at  Plymouth  Rock. 

Dust  had  gathered  on  the  parchment  records  of 
Lima’s  library,  its  university  was  old,  before  the  little 
red  school-house  of  the  States  had  begun.  Its  history 
had  been  written  by  its  own  citizens,  its  clever  young 
men  were  satirizing  their  townspeople,  and  writing 
verses  after  the  French  when  Chicago  was  merely  a 
prairie  swamp.  And  not  all  of  the  earthquakes  which 
have  shaken  it,  nor  the  countless  revolutions  and  wars, 
have  been  able  to  destroy  its  ancient  outlines  and 
antique  flavor.  The  very  atmosphere,  which  blankets 

77 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

the  town  for  a good  part  of  the  year  in  a tawn}',  sunlit 
haze — something  more  than  air  and  less  than  mist — 
seems  designed  to  shut  in  and  preserve  the  past. 

One  may  still  see,  overhanging  the  street,  carved 
balconies  which  the  colonists  patterned  after  their 
native  Andalusia;  houses  with  inner  courts  big  enough 
for  palaces;  great,  spike-studded  front  doors  almost  as 
formidable  as  the  gates  of  a city.  Electric  cars  whir 
past  mouldering  old  monastery  walls  within  which  life 
has  scarcely  shown  a ripple  of  change  in  three  cen- 
turies. In  the  Cathedral  the  sacristan  draws  back  the 
curtains  from  a glass  case  containing  the  very  bones 
of  Pizarro.  On  the  corner  of  the  plaza,  to  the  left 
from  the  cathedral  steps,  is  the  passageway  from  which 
the  conspirators  emerged  on  their  way  to  kill  him. 
One,  as  the  legend  goes,  stepped  out  of  the  way  of  a 
mud  puddle,  and  the  other  ordered  him  back,  thinking 
that  one  afraid  of  water  was  not  ready  to  wade  through 
blood.  To  the  right  is  the  Government  Palace,  in 
which  they  surprised  the  old  conqueror,  slaughtered 
his  guard,  and  ran  him  through.  As  he  fell  he  traced 
in  his  own  blood  a cross  on  the  stone  floor,  kissed  it, 
and  died.  They  knew  how  in  those  days. 

The  great  war  which  left  the  country  flat  and  help- 
less just  as  the  boom  was  developing  in  the  Argentine, 
its  inaccessibility,  and  the  comparative  lack  of  oppor- 
tunity which  it  offered  to  immigrants,  have  kept  it 
back.  A few  Chinese  and  Japanese  have  crossed  the 
Pacific,  there  are  British  and  German  and  occasionally 
American  business  men,  but  Peru  has  received  nothing 

78 


The  central  plaza  at  Lima  and  the  cathedral  where  may  be  seen  the  The  monument  to  the  war  hero  of 

bones  of  Pizarro  Peru. 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


like  the  stream  of  colonists  which  has  made  Brazil’s 
Little  Germany,  Italianized  parts  of  the  Argentine, 
made  many  of  Chile’s  nitrate  fields  like  British  colonies. 

Sprouting  out  of  the  old  Ciudad  de  los  Reyes,  never- 
theless, is  the  new  city.  Its  young  men  ride  paper 
chases,  its  young  women  play  tennis  and — after  wear- 
ing the  manto  to  church  in  the  morning — go  to  the 
races  in  the  afternoon  in  European  dresses  and  hats. 
Its  business  men  have  their  Chamber  of  Commerce, 
which  applies  the  energy  Latin-Americans  used  to  ex- 
pend on  apostrophes  to  liberty  to  the  agitation  of  com- 
mercial treaties,  customs  reforms,  and  internal  im- 
provements. Trolley-cars  hum  across  the  startled 
landscape  from  Callao  to  Lima  or  down  to  the  bathing 
beach  at  Chorillos.  On  the  outskirts  of  town  a modern 
army  trained  by  French  officers — sturdy,  broad-faced 
Indians  or  cholos,  reminding  one  of  Japanese,  in  white 
service  uniforms — tramp  through  the  eternal  dust. 
In  the  library,  young  Peruvians  are  reading  reference 
books  as  they  would  in  a city  library  at  home.  The 
University  of  San  Marcos  was  established  by  Charles  V 
himself,  in  1551,  but  the  new  Lima  is  here  also,  and 
the  afternoon  I was  there  she  and  two  or  three  of  her 
sister  co-eds  sat  in  a roomful  of  dark-eyed  young  men, 
puckering  her  brows  and  taking  notes  on  the  history 
lecture  with  the  rest. 

In  the  university’s  new  medical  school,  that  same 
day,  I saw  young  Peruvians,  under  the  guidance  of 
one  of  their  countrymen  who  had  been  graduated 
from  Cornell,  carving  up  the  remains  of  some  poor, 

79 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


half-starved  cholos,  for  the  good  of  mankind.  Many 
of  them  come  down  from  the  interior — these  half- 
nourished  brown  men — and  what  with  drink  or  un- 
cleanness, or  the  change  from  the  thin,  cold  air  of  the 
Cordillera,  die  off  like  sheep.  I saw  dozens  of  them 
that  same  afternoon  in  the  great  “Dos  de  Mayo ’’hos- 
pital, wrapped  in  red  blankets,  lying  side  by  side  down 
the  long  wards.  It  wras  rather  ghastly  and  queerly  pa- 
thetic*, as  though  the  white  man’s  science  and  sanitation 
were  somehow  prolonging  a kind  of  suffering  which  one 
forgets  existed  before  the  white  man  came.  Of  course 
the  real  significance  was  not  at  all  this:  rather  that  in  a 
country  where  sanitation  was  once  almost  unknown, 
and  even  now  more  die  of  tuberculosis  than  of  the 
tropical  diseases  which  northerners  dread,  there  should 
be  a place  where  poor  creatures  like  these  might  be 
decently  taken  care  of. 

Lima’s  best  hotel  compares,  favorably  with  those  in 
European  cities  of  similar  size.  At  the  club  round 
the  corner  one  meets  men  as  well-informed,  more 
polite,  and  much  more  acquainted  with  modern 
languages  than  the  usual  club  crowd  at  home,  and  finds 
the  world’s  papers,  from  the  New  York  Herald  to  La 
Vie  Illustree,  the  London  Times  to  Caras  y Caretas  of 
Buenos  Aires.  At  the  newspaper  office  a little  farther 
down  the  street  shock-haired  cholos  rap  the  keys  of 
linotype  machines  with  the  blase  accuracy  of  Park 
Row.  There  is  pelota  and  Rugby  football,  polo  and 
gymkana  races,  opera,  generally,  in  the  winter,  little 
zarzuela  plays  almost  all  the  time.  And  when  you 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


buy  your  ticket  you  pay  in  neat  silver  sol  pieces  the 
size  and  value  of  our  fifty-cent  piece,  or  with  a gold 
piece  of  the  same  fineness  and  value  as  the  English 
pound.  The  mere  sight  and  feel  of  these  delicately 
modelled  coins  seems  to  imply  stability  and  inherent 
orderliness. 

Through  all  the  old  channels,  in  fact,  begins  to  flow 
the  stream  of  modern  utilitarian  life  which  such  com- 
munities must  accept  to-day  if  they  would  go  forward 
instead  of  back.  As  you  see  the  Limenans  of  a 
golden-hazy  Sunday,  trooping  to  church,  strolling  about 
the  Zoo  or  under  the  stately  ficus  trees  of  the  Botanical 
Garden,  it  is  hard  to  believe  that  only  twelve  years  ago, 
when  Pierola  entered  the  capital  with  his  revolutionists, 
three  thousand  people  were  killed  in  three  days  in  these 
same  drowsy  streets. 

It  begins — this  busy  Lima  Sunday — with  breakfast 
in  one’s  room;  a cloying-sweet  chirimoya,  perhaps, 
coffee  and  rolls,  a little  square  of  the  tasteless  goat’s 
cheese  so  common  in  Peru,  and  El  Comercio  or  La 
Prensa  propped  up  against  the  coffee-pot.  Through 
the  open  shutters  comes  the  dull  reverberation  of  the 
Cathedral  bell  and  the  sound  of  feet  shuffling  by  in 
the  narrow  street;  from  the  interior  court,  upon  which 
all  the  hotel  rooms  open,  the  faint,  intermittent  click, 
if  you  listen  for  it,  of  other  people’s  desayuno  spoons. 

Here,  as  at  home,  the  Sunday  paper  is  ambitious — 
even  interspersed  with  half-tones:  Queen  Margherita 
of  Italy  at  a charity  bazar,  a “momento  critico  en  un 
match  de  football ” in  England;  the  principals  in  that 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


recent  British  romance,  young  Lord  Clifford  of  Chud- 
leigh  and  “la  senorita  Evelina  Victoria  Carrington,” 
leading  lady  of  the  company  acting  at  the  “elegante 
Teatro  de  Aldwych  de  Londres.” 

The  noble  lord  (for  with  a taste  debauched  by  Sun- 
day supplements  we  skip  for  the  moment  politics  and 
the  article  on  the  Triple  Alliance  and  the  extinction  of 
the  bubonic  plague,  and  after  glancing  over  the  cable 
despatches  turn  to  this  echo  of  the  wood-pulp  romances 
of  home)  had  seen  Miss  Carrington  as  she  shone  across 
the  footlights  of  his  native  town  of  Dublin,  where  “los 
Irlandeses  in  their  strident,  whistling  speech,  knew  him 
as  the  Catch  of  the  Season .”  He  was  only  twenty-one, 
many  times  a millionaire — with  what  a far-off,  queer, 
Olympian  glitter  must  he  shine  in  the  eyes  of  Mercedita 
of  Lima,  shut  away  from  his*world  by  oceans  and  con- 
tinents and  ages  of  traditions — “the  .scion  of  a family 
which  had  worn  the  ermine  of  nobility  for  nearly  five 
centuries.” 

Be  assured,  however,  gentle  Mercedita,  “not  all  the 
noise  in  the  feminine  world  is  made  by  the  female 
politician.  Her  evolution  has  not,  we  are  glad  to  say, 
quite  destroyed  the  romance  of  life.”  The  young  lord 
promptly  fell  in  love,  only  to  be  compelled  to  tear  him- 
self away  from  the  Irish  capital  and  go  to  Egypt  with 
his  regiment.  “Was  he  really  aware  of  the  danger 
awaiting  his  heart  from  the  eyes  of  Evelina?  He  alone 
could  tell.”  None  thought  of  it,  it  seems,  when  he 
returned,  presently,  older  and  with  the  “aureola  del 
vencedor”  about  his  brow.  But  the  “ Diva  de  Aldwych 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


granted  him  an  interview,  en  automovil — that  machine 
of  the  future  which  already  has  made  history  in  the 
realm  of  romance.  In  this  rapid  vehicle  Lord  Clifford 
and  la  senorita  Evelina  reached  an  understanding,  and 
four  days  later  abbreviated  the  marriage  formalities 
with  a speed  scarcely  to  be  expected  of  a lord.” 

“The  Aldwych  Theatre  had  one  star  less,  cl  peerage 
una  esplendida  lady  mas.” 

Glancing  down  a column  headed  “Sport”  and 
through  a communication  on  the  Dreyfus  case  signed 
“Historicas,”  one  meets,  with  pleasant  surprise,  the 
name  “Lady  Clare”  at  the  head  of  what  appears  to 
be  a short  special  article,  modestly  signed  at  the  bot- 
tom, “A.  Tennyson.”  It  is  one  of  those  paraphrases 
with  which  thrifty  Latin-American  editors  frequently 
fill  space: 

“Era  el  tiempo  en  que  florecen  los  lirios  y en  que  las 
nubes  se  agitan  en  lo  mas  elevado  de  los  aires.  Lord 
Ronald,  al  regresar  de  una  caceria , regalo  a su  prima 
Lady  Clare  una  cierva  blanca  como  una  azucena .” 

This  is  what  becomes  of : 

It  was  the  time  when  lilies  blow 
And  clouds  are  highest  in  the  air 
Lord  Ronald  brought  a lily-white  doc 
To  give  his  cousin  Lady  Clare. 

Lima’s  newspapers  reflect  that  modernity  which, 
loosely  speaking,  increases  as  one  travels  southward. 
They  are  more  like  newspapers.  There  is  less  fine 
writing.  You  may  remember  our  Caracas  friend  who 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


wrote  about  a garden  party  and  told  of  the  sunset, 
and  a breeze  like  vague  whispers  of  chaste  amours, 
and  the  day  wrapping  itself  in  the  melancholy  of  its 
last  adieux. 

In  Lima,  a similar  correspondent,  would  rather  show 
his  knowledge  of  the  world  by  criticising  his  native 
town.  Thus  in  a communication  on  municipal  art  we 
find  him  cruelly  comparing  Lima,  to  Munich. 

“Like  Munich,”  he  observes  icily,  “Lima  is  quite 
impossible.  At  every  step  we  commit  offenses  against 
nature  and  good  taste;  trim  trees  in  capricious  shapes, 
put  quadrilaterals  of  Moorish  motive  on  top  of 
Greek  facades,  raise  arches  behind  Ionic  columns,  so 
that  the  former  are  split  by  perpendicular  lines,  and 
both  effects  sacrificed.  Some  of  our  perspectives  are 
positively  cruel.  We  live  in  narrow  rectilinear  cor- 
ridors, monotonous,  unadorned;  there  is  not  an  exam- 
ple of  industrial  art  to  entertain  the  casual  guest — not 
a single  newspaper  kiosk,  not  a martial  fountain,  nor 
a polychromatic  column  for  advertisements,  a memorial 
plaza,  a fire-alarm,  an  automatic  scales — none  of  these 
mere  obviousnesses,  so  to  speak,  of  prosaic  modern 
city  life. 

“Posts — miles  of  lowering  posts  with  their  bare 
copper  wires!  Without  Europeanizing  .ourselves,  as 
Madame  de  Stael  put  it,  can  we-  not  transform  this 
absurd  old  Ciudad  de  los  Reyes,  devote  ourselves  a 
little  more  to  its  embellishment?”  Even  the  most 
squalid  quarters  of  other  capitals  have  a sort  of  charm, 
“wrapped  as  they  are  in  history  and  tradition,  grimy 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


with  ancient  crimes  and  revolutions.  Whitechapel, 
the  Marche  du  Temple,  the  Barrio  de  la  Vina  in  Cadiz, 
the  Barceloneta  of  Barcelona,  the  famous  Boca  of 
Buenos  Aires.  . . . We,  however,  lack  all  this.  Our 
squalid  quarters  are  merely  squalid.  We  have  no 
given  type,  nothing  genuine  in  form  or  color  here  in 
our  world  of  bricabraqueria ” 

Respectfully  one  salutes  the  coiner  of  that  phrase. 
It  really  wonderfully  expresses  it — bricabraqueria — not 
the  ancient  city,  nor,  perhaps,  the  Lima  that  exists 
behind  the  great  studded  doors,  but  that  which  strikes 
the  casual  stranger’s  eye;  a diminutive  sprightliness 
of  the  streets,  a certain  vivacity  and  social  grace  which 
contrasts  with  the  sentimental  melancholy  of  the 
Caribbean,  Bolivian  stolidity  and  Chilian  hardness  and 
hustle. 

Up  and  down  every  street,  meanwhile,  the  faithful 
womenfolk,  their  black  mantos  veiling  all  but  their 
pale  oval  faces  and  their  dark  sad  eyes,  flock  to  mass. 
All  must  wear  the  manto  in  church — not  the  demurest 
bonnet  whatsoever  is  permitted  there.  The  lines  of 
caste  are  all  but  lost  in  this  black  covering,  and  side  by 
side  they  troop  into  the  cool  portals,  mistress  and 
brown  cholo  maid,  merged  in  a sombre  penitential 
democracy. 

More  than  with  us  at  home,  even,  the  business  of 
getting  sins  forgiven  is  put  upon  the  shoulders  of 
women.  With  them  in  the  dim  cathedral  kneel  a few 
old  men  and  children,  perhaps  some  majestic  states- 
man or  retired  warrior,  setting  an  example  to  the 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


populace.  But  the  young  men  and  sinners  roll  up  and 
down  in  open  victorias,  lolling  back  with  legs  crossed, 
smoking  cigarettes,  or  stand  along  the  curb  twirling 
their  limber  canes  and  watching  the  caterers  and 
carriages  drive  by. 

In  almost  all  South  American  cities  women  spend,  in 
the  almost  continuous  services  of  the  Church,  the  time 
which,  with  us,  they  utilize  or  waste  in  literary  clubs, 
bridge,  settlement  work,  and  what  not.  One  can 
scarcely  walk  a block  in  Lima  without  passing  some 
musty  old  church — its  alter  quaintly  lit,  perhaps,  with 
incandescent  lamps — without  inhaling  the  cool,  musty 
smell  of  damp  stone  and  incense,  and  seeing  black- 
robed,  penitent  women  kneeling  in  prayer. 

In  the  heart  of  the  city,  spreading  over  several 
squares,  is  the  monastery  of  the  Franciscan  monks, 
scarcely  changed  from  what  it  must  have  been  three 
centuries  ago.  One  of  them  took  us  through  the 
portions  open  to  visitors  after  we  had  duly  tapped  on 
the  spike-studded  door  and  whispered  our  mission 
through  the  wicket — a brown,  bright-eyed  little  fellow, 
lean  as  a hound,  at  once  keen  and  quite  ingenuous. 
There  were  arched  ceilings,  painted  blue  and  speckled 
with  stars  to  represent  the  heavens,  fine  old  carved 
choir-stalls,  dungeon-passages  walled  up  with  rusty 
bars  such  as  a child  might  build  for  his  ogre’s  castle. 
Even  the  little  monk  could  not  tell  their  history,  only 
shrug  his  shoulders  and  glide  on.  It  was  pretty  to 
see  him  handle  some  of  the  old  vestments — cloth  of 
gold  which  Queen  Isabella  of  Spain  herself  had  pre- 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


sented  to  the  order.  The  cloth  on  which  the  gold  was 
laid  had  been  many  times  renewed,  but  the  gold  threads 
themselves  were  as  beautiful  as  they  ever  had  been. 
The  modern  vestments  looked  brazen  and  almost 
tawdry  beside  them.  There  was  one  crypt-like  place 
in  which  a flickering  oil  lamp  burned.  Why  was  it 
always  burning  there?  Ah — many,  many  years  ago, 
senores,  robbers  broke  into  the  monastery.  And  as 
they  came  in,  intent  on  stealing  and  murder,  the 
images  of  the  saints  left  their  altars  and  shrines  and 
came  down  here  to  hide.  And  when  the  wicked  men 
saw  them — these  images  of  wood  and  stone,  moving 
and  alive — they  were  filled  with  pity  and  with  fear, 
and  dropped  their  booty  and  fled.  So  the  monastery 
was  saved  from  profanation,  senores , and  the  place  was 
made  a shrine. 

Of  the  many  Church  fiestas , of  which  so  much  is 
made  in  the  South  American  cities,  none  is  more  im- 
pressively mediaeval  than  that  of  Corpus  Christi,  which 
fell  on  one  of  the  days  I spent  in  Lima.  The  great 
sun-baked  cathedral  makes  one  side  of  the  plaza,  the 
other  three  are  flanked  by  arcades  with  open  shops  be- 
hind them  and  balconies  overhead.  From  all  these 
balconies  and  open  windows  the  crowd  hung,  waiting 
for  the  procession,  chattering  and  laughing,  while  in 
the  cathedral  the  organ  thundered,  the  violins  sang 
above  it  shrilly,  and  the  incense  rolled  up  in  clouds. 

Soldiers  cleared  the  street  and  lined  up  along  the 
curb.  Flowers  were  scattered  over  the  muddy  pave- 
ment, and  handfuls  of  rose  petals.  “All  the  pretty 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


beatas  will  be  out.  Come,”  said  my  host,  “we  can  see 
better  from  the  balcony  of  the  club.”  So  indeed  they 
were,  gathering  in  the  street  behind  the  banners  of 
their  various  guilds — pale  virgins  with  their  lamps.  All 
wore  mantos  or  mantillas,  and  each  carried  a long  taper. 
Some  of  these  tapers  had  glass  shades  and  looked  like 
“fairy-lamps”  on  sticks.  Here  and  there  the  older 
women — fat  and  dumpy  as  is  the  way  of  their  blood — 
blinked  behind  their  lamps  drolly,  like  wise  old  owls. 
On  the  club  balcony  several  modern  young  ladies,  ac- 
companying fathers  or  brothers,  looked  down  good- 
humoredly,  and,  as  it  seemed,  with  what  might  be 
the  vague  condescension  of  those  in  modern  dresses 
toward  those  in  mantos  and  black;  from  the  room 
behind  came  the  sprightly  click  of  billiard  balls. 

The  procession  emerged  from  the  cathedral  and 
moved  slowly  round  the  square.  In  the  midst  of  it, 
under  a velvet  canopy,  was  a feeble  old  man  bearing 
the  Host.  Many  little  acolytes  in  scarlet  and  white 
swung  censers  in  front  of  and  behind  him.  The  beatas 
followed  demurely,  their  candles  flickering  wanly  in 
the  daylight;  the  soldiers,  executing  a sort  of  goose- 
step,  fell  in  behind,  tramping  down  the  flowers.  Across 
the  plaza,  as  it  slowly  proceeded,  came  the  jangling  of 
bells,  and  little  clouds  of  incense  floated  away.  Sev- 
eral times  the  procession  paused,  for  the  canopy  was 
heavy  and  some  of  the  priests  were  very  old.  As  it 
neared  and  passed  under  the  balcony,  the  young  ladies 
pointed  out  their  friends.  “There’s  Rosita,”  said  one. 
“Isn’t  she  pretty  to-day?”  “They  are  all  pretty,” 

SS 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


sighed  our  host.  “We  must  make  some  calls  this 
afternoon.  All  the  Manuelas  will  be  at  home  to- 
day.” The  procession  disappeared  into  the  church. 
The  crowd  dwindled  away,  the  pale  beatas  trooped 
homeward  two  by  two,  carrying  their  burnt-out  lamps 
— just  about  as  the  young  British  and  American  clerks 
were  leaving  their  tennis-courts,  and  the  paper-chasers 
trotting  back  to  town. 

On  summer  Sundays  there  is  a bull-fight.  In  winter, 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  months  of  our  northern  summer, 
the  Jockey  Club  races  are  the  event  of  the  afternoon, 
and  the  “higgy-liffy”  of  the  capital  gathers  about  the 
little  gingerbread  grandstand  of  the  “Hipodromo 
de  Santa  Beatriz.”  It  is  an  engaging  place,  quiet  and 
toylike;  young  Martinez  and  Montero  try  hard  and 
wickedly  to  pocket,  ride  off,  and  otherwise  embarrass 
the  occasional  Master  Michaels  or  Keefe  or  O’Brien 
who  has  ventured  here  from  the  States — “second 
cousin,  senor,  of  the  jockey  who  has  win  the  grand  race 
at  your  Shipshead  last  year,  no?” — and  the  horses, 
likely  to  be  of  Chilian  breed,  are  called  lovely  rolling 
names  like  Quintora  and  Oro,  Ventarron  and  Amor. 

After  the  shirt-sleeves  and  sweat,  peanuts  and  uproar 
of  our  betting  rings,  it  was  interesting  to  see  Lima’s 
little  “mutual”  betting  kiosks  with  the  sign  “Le 
Sport”  set  over  them,  and  the  bettors  lining  up  before 
the  windows  as  quietly  and  decorously  as  they  would 
buy  tickets  at  the  theatre.  With  this  system — in  use 
at  all  South  American  tracks — a certain  percentage  of 
the  money  laid  down  goes,  of  course,  to  the  club,  while 

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the  successful  bettors  divide  the  winnings  in  proportion 
to  their  number.  If  the  favorite  is  backed  too  heavily, 
they  may  win  nothing  at  all.  If  you  want  to  bet  five 
soles  you  go  to  one  window,  and  if  you  want  to  bet 
ten  soles  you  go  to  another  window,  and  the  clerk 
within  gives  a ticket  in  return  and  rings  up  your  pur- 
chase, so  to  speak,  on  an  automatic  machine.  The 
most  interesting  result  to  me  was  the  sight  of  the 
small-boy  capitalists — who  would  have  been  stepped 
on  if  they  had  ventured  into  the  betting-ring  mael- 
strom at  home  or  fished  therefrom  and  ruthlessly 
spanked — marching  up  to  the  on  e-sol  window  and  lay- 
ing down  their  little  silver  pieces  with  a great  puckering 
of  eyebrows  and  much  savoir  faire. 

As  much  as  the  mouldering  old  walls  of  Lima  they 
reminded  the  outsider  that  he  was  far  from  home — 
these  nice  little  boys,  in  knickerbockers  and  broad 
clean  collars  and  big  Sunday-school  ties,  slapping  down 
their  silver  pieces  and  chirping  excitedly  to  the  clerk 
the  number  of  their  favorite — “Once!” — “Doce!” — 
“Cuatro!” — and  after  the  running  crowding  round  the 
pay-window  just  as  boys  at  home  might  crowd  round 
a waffle-wagon  or  hokey-pokey  ice-cream  cart.  One 
was  taken  away  again  when  the  horses  swung  into  the 
stretch  turn,  and  “Amor”  (could  Love  be  vanquished 
by  Gold  or  a Hurricane?)  showed  in  the  lead,  and  the 
audience  rippled  out  toward  him — instead  of  the 
nervous  yelps  of  home — a mellifluous  “A-mor!  A-mor! 
Ade-el-fan-te  A-mor!” 

After  the  races  comes  the  carriage  parade,  and  then 

90 


Small  boys  betting  on  the  horses  at  the  Lima  race  track.  In  plaza  at  Lima  during  the  Corpus  Christi  procession. 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


the  Sunday  evening  dinner,  which  is  quite  as  much  a 
family  affair  as  it  is  with  us  at  home. 

They  are  splendid  places  for  such  meetings,  these 
spacious  old  houses,  with  their  inner  courts  open  to 
the  sky — for  it  never  really  rains  in  Lima — and  the 
rooms  opening  on  the  inner  balcony.  In  their  con- 
tinuous summer — although  the  Humboldt  current  keeps 
this  coast  much  cooler  than  corresponding  latitudes 
on  the  east  coast — these  balconies  often  become  merely 
a continuation  of  the  rooms  behind  them.  They  are 
spread  with  rugs  and  set  with  chairs,  and  very  inviting 
they  look — especially  about  twilight  time — as  you  are 
walking  home  from  the  races,  for  instance,  and  catch, 
through  the  outer  doorway  and  the  dusk  of  the 
court,  glimpses  of  figures  and  the  warm  glow  of  lamp- 
light. 

Now  would  be  just  the  time,  were  one  at  home,  to 
look  in  for  a minute,  and  watch  gifted  Mary  or  lovely 
Jane  prepare  a cup  of  tea.  But  this  is  Latin-America, 
where  a man  bestows,  not  receives,  kindnesses;  where 
the  mildest  thing,  it  is  feared  he  would  propose,  if 
left  for  an  instant  unguarded,  would  be  an  immediate 
elopement;  where  Mercedita  and  Olimpia  may  not  re- 
ceive us  unless  Mamma — or  the  whole  family — is  there. 

To  us,  with  our  North  American  ideas,  it  would 
seem  that  the  relations  between  young  people  might 
be  much  more  pleasant  and  beneficial  if  a girl  were  not 
taught  to  assume  that  every  man  is  an  erotic  hyena, 
and  men  were  not  encouraged  to  presume  that  young 
ladies  have  no  protection  except  that  which  resides  in 

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duennas  and  iron  bars — but  ages  of  tradition  cannot  be 
changed  in  a day. 

Here  in  Lima  families  have  a regular  “at  home” 
day,  generally  an  afternoon,  when  all  may  be  seen. 
Outside  of  these  meetings,  dances,  and  glimpses  now 
and  then  at  more  or  less  public  gatherings,  the  young 
people  see  little  of  one  another.  The  embarrassment 
of  a young  American  engineer  or  clerk  plumped  into 
such  an  environment  from,  for  example,  the  boy-and- 
girl  good-fellowship  of  a suburban  towm  may  be  im- 
agined. If  he  calls  on  a young  woman  more  than 
twice  he  is  likely  to  be  asked  to  define  his  intentions. 
They  told  me  of  one  young  gringo,  thus  surprised  after 
what  he  had  assumed  to  be  merely  a polite  call,  who 
replied,  “They  are  perfectly  honorable,  sir,  but  remote.” 

For  such  men,  indeed,  Latin- American  society,  after 
the  first  novelty  is  over,  is  a bit  melancholy.  In  more 
ways  than  one  they  do  not  speak  the  same  language. 
They  cannot  manage  the  flowrery  compliments,  which 
are  the  mere  preliminaries  of  talk,  and  they  are  angered 
and  perplexed  when  they  hear  young  men  speak  in  a 
wTay  that  would  be  considered  impertinent  at  home. 
Either  shocked  or  bored,  the  exiles  find  it  slow  sledding. 

“Habla  usted  espanol  ? No,  muy  poco,  very  little, 
only  for  business,  the  railroad,  the  hotel.  Do  they 
like  to  dance?  Oh,  yes — they  love  to  dance.  And 
can  they  dance  the  cake-walk — dancing  the  cakky-wak 
seems  to  be  considered  one  of  the  most  absorbing  of 
North  American  activities — and  South  Americans  ask 
about  it  with  the  same  roguish  smile  of  intimate  under- 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


standing  that  the  American  assumes  when  he  ventures 
a scintillating  “Ha  estado  usted  en  Nueva  York?”  No, 
they  are  sorry  they  do  not  dance  the  cake-walk,  though 
they  have  seen  it  danced — did  the  young  ladies  go  to 
the  theatre  last  night?  No,  they  did  not  go  last  night, 
but  they  hope  to  go  to-morrow  night.  The  new  singer 
is  muy  bonita,  very  simpatica — no?  Yes,  but  is  she  as 
good  as  the  one  who  was  here  last  month  ? Well,  yes, 
but  not  so  good  as  the  one  who  was  here  the  month 
before.” 

“You  can’t  even  talk  about  the  weather  here  in 
Lima,”  one  young  man  confided  grimly,  “because  it 
never  rains!” 

Here  and  there  new  ways  are  creeping  in.  While  1 
was  talking  with  a Lima  gentleman  in  his  library  one 
afternoon  two  of  his  young  daughters  went  skipping 
downstairs  with  tennis  rackets.  They  were  on  their 
way  to  a club  court,  whither  they  went  apparently 
unattended.  This,  for  Lima,  was  indeed  unusual,  yet 
there — as  with  us,  where  it  has  done  so  much — outdoor 
sport  is  beginning  to  open  occasional  gaps  in  the  dusty 
old  social  walls.  Young  women  of  this  class  are  quite 
as  well,  if  not  better,  educated  than  their  brothers, 
except  when  the  latter  have  had  the  advantage  of 
schooling  in  England  or  the  States.  This  the  girls 
rarely  receive.  They  go  to  the  convent  schools  or  are 
tutored  at  home. 

For  the  common,  or  garden  variety  of  girl,  however, 
learning  is  viewed  as  a dangerous  thing.  Tradition  is 
against  it;  the  frivolous  Latin- American  young  man  is 

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T PI E OTHER  AMERICANS 


made  more  uncomfortable  even  than  his  Northern 
neighbor  by  signs  of  undue  cerebration  in  the  opposite 
sex;  even  to  a gringo  the  vision  of  a “brainy”  senorita 
is  appalling.  They  learn  to  play  the  piano,  to  sing  a 
little,  to  draw  and  do  fancy  work;  the  rest,  studied 
from  antique  text-books  would  amount,  so  I was  told 
by  an  American  school-teacher,  to  about  that  necessary 
to  pass  the  sixth  grammar  grade  at  home. 

These  things  are  better  ordered  in  Chile  and  the 
Argentine,  where  there  has  been  much  importation  of 
teachers  and  methods  from  Europe  and  the  States, 
and  elementary  education  in  such  cities  as  Buenos 
Ayres  and  Santiago  is  often  much  like  that  in  our  public 
schools.  There  are  German,  English,  and  American 
schools  in  Callao  and  Lima,  but  outside  influences  of 
this  sort  find  it  hard  to  spread  far,  especially  if  avow- 
edly Protestant.  A missionary,  who  had  started  a 
school  in  which  modern  English  text-books  and  meth- 
ods were  used  as  far  as  practicable,  told  me  that  one 
priest  launched  a series  of  sermons  directly  against  her 
work,  warning  his  congregation  that  she  was  possessed 
of  a terrible  microbe,  which,  communicated  from  her, 
would  attack  the  brain  of  its  victim  and  destroy  her 
will  power.  It  even  went  so  far,  she  said,  that  in 
passing  her  on  the  narrow  Lima  sidewalks  timorous 
young  women  would  squeeze  close  to  the  wall  and 
put  their  handkerchiefs  to  their  faces  as  if  to  shut 
out  some  malignant  disease. 

Tradition  and  social  prestige  are  on  the  side  of  the 
convent  schools,  and  it  is  easy  to  understand  why  the 

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LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


young  folks  themselves  would  rather  go  there.  One 
American  missionary  school  which  I visited  was  in 
an  old  tumble-down  house,  ill-lighted  and  damp.  It 
was  the  best  they  could  get  for  the  time  being,  and  the 
young  woman  at  the  head  of  it  certainly  deserved  great 
credit;  but  one  couldn’t  deny,  even  for  patriotism’s 
sake,  the  charm  of  the  big  convent  school  a few  squares 
away. 

The  old  fortress-like  walls  covered  a good  part  of  a 
city  block.  Two  ladies,  evidently  just  having  paid  a 
visit  to  their  children,  came  out  of  the  cool  interior  as 
I entered,  stepped  into  a victoria,  opened  their  parasols, 
and  drove  away.  Within,  everything  was  spacious 
and  clean  and  cool — a fine  old  Spanish  building,  with 
massive  arches,  trees  and  flowers  growing  in  the  broad 
patio.  Once  as  we  were  passing  through  an  upper 
corridor  the  Mother  Superior  beckoned  to  a sort  of 
window  in  the  walls,  and  we  looked  down.  It  was  a 
chapel,  the  candles  blazing  about  the  altar,  on  the 
floor  below  rows  of  ninas  veiled  in  white  and  bowed  in 
prayer.  Behind  us  little  girls  were  playing  in  the 
inner  court;  the  afternoon  sunshine  brightened  the 
chapel  windows.  The  Mother  Superior,  a brisk,  terse, 
Irish  woman,  brought  here,  so  I was  told,  that  the 
convent,  also,  might  have  an  English-speaking  north- 
erner at  its  head,  led  the  way  through  recitation  and 
music  rooms  to  a laboratory,  finally,  with  a few  phys- 
ical science  instruments.  “Not  much,” — she  smiled 
good-humoredly, — “but  good  enough  for  girls.” 

If  the  intellectual  interests  of  these  young  ladies 

95 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


are  neither  broad  nor  piercingly  acute  they  have,  more 
than  most  of  our  own  would,  the  charms  of  their 
deficiencies.  Amongst  our  reasoning  maidens  of  the 
north  there  is  nothing  like  their  childlike  delight 
in  little  things,  their  frank  unselfconscious  coquetry. 
Big  brother,  tiptoeing  into  the  doorway,  brings  his 
hands  together  with  a tremendous  clap,  and  grown-up 
Lolita  and  Elena  and  Luisa  jump  and  scatter  like 
startled  quail,  laughing,  affecting  prodigious  alarm, 
not  frightened,  yet,  as  it  were,  loving  to  pretend  to  be. 
Even  Mamma  looks  up  with  a quick,  girlish  smile  and 
half  puts  her  hands  to  her  ears. 

In  the  blood  of  all,  young  and  old,  is  an  instinct  for 
chivalrous  romance,  fine  words  of  courtesy  and  compli- 
ment, inherited  from  the  days  when  folks  signed  letters 
“ beso  las  manos  y los  pies  de  Ud. — I kiss  your  hands 
and  feet” — even  when  writing  challenges  to  their  bitter- 
est enemies.  Sometimes,  as  in  business  letters,  this 
trait  seems  merely  amusing.  In  more  human  relation- 
ships, however,  it  has  often  a very  tender  and  gracious 
charm.  Two  old  ladies,  old  friends,  chanced  to  meet 
one  day  at  the  house  of  an  acquaintance  of  mine. 
They  were  at  an  age  when  to  speak  of  their  infirmities 
was  natural,  yet,  instead  of  settling  down  for  a dis- 
cussion of  the  symptoms  of  rheumatism,  each  began, 
in  highly  figurative  language,  to  minimize  her  friend’s 
age  and  accent  her  own.  “I  am  but  a withered  leaf,” 
one  would  say,  for  instance;  “a  brown  and  wrinkled 
leaf  blown  hither  and  thither  by  the  wind.  . . .”  “Ah, 
no,  my  dear  friend,  you  are  a flower  that  brings  fra- 

96 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


grance  and  refreshment  wherever  you  go.  . . “If  I 
am  a flower  I’m  only  a faded  old  flower,  no  longer  any 
good  to  anybody.”  “Ah,  my  dear  friend,  even  the 
faded  rose  retains  its  perfume.  . . 

These  South  American  maidens  flirt — if  so  brutal 
a word  must  be  used  for  such  a guileless  effervescence 
of  animal  spirits — as  birds  sing  or  little  children 
clap  their  hands.  There  was  a Venezuelan  lady, 
a buxom  and  vivacious  matron,  who,  after  tremend- 
ous struggles  with  her  English,  finally  managed  to 
pronounce  to  one  of  us  the  magic  word  “Huyler’s.” 
Through  goodness  knows  what  circuitous  channels  it 
had  reached  her  across  the  Caribbean.  If  he  would 
but  send  her  a box  when  he  got  home,  she  managed  to 
explain,  between  ripples  of  laughter  at  the  funny- 
sounding English  words  and  the  delightfulness  of  the 
idea,  she  would  think  of  him — and  both  hands  were 
pressed  passionately  to  her  heart — with  every  single 
piece  she  ate!  The  guest  promptly  answered,  of 
course,  not  only  that  the  box  should  be  sent,  but  that 
he  didn’t  need  candy  or  anything  else  to  remember  her 
until  the  crack  of  doom.  And  so  on,  and  on,  with 
killing  glances  and  much  laughter — her  two  children 
watching  her  gravely  the  while,  her  husband  at  her 
side  highly  entertained  and  very  proud  of  his  wife’s 
repartee.  Meanwhile  her  unmarried  sisters  were  being 
thrown  into  ecstasy  because  another  man  promised  to 
send  each  of  them,  by  way  of  recuerdos,  some  picture 
post-cards  from  Panama. 

In  Lima  there  was  another  such  evening,  a Sunday 

97 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


evening  family  dinner,  when  big  and  little,  the  married 
sister,  and  the  fiances  of  the  two  older  girls  gathered 
about  the  table  in  the  feudal  South  American  way. 
How  the  men  were  made  to  blush  and  look  at  their 
plates  as  the  younger  girls,  more  nimble  at  these 
things,  laughed  at  their  attempts  to  speak  English! 
"What  do  you  think  of  heem,  senor!  All  he  can  say 
is  ‘Good-morning — how  dough  you  do?  Ye-e-s? 
Dough-you-like-Lima?’  He  has  estudied  all  hees  life 
an’  he  can’t  spik  a whole  sentence  of  English!”  And 
away  they  went  in  ripples  of  laughter  and  quick 
Spanish  phrases — and  one  doesn’t  know  how  musical 
a tongue  it  is  until  one  has  heard  it  spoken  by  young 
girls,  or,  best  of  all,  the  little  children.  And,  then 
with  what  tremendous  drollery  the  men  got  back  at 
their  tormentors  by  plaguing  them  about  their  suitors, 
especially  little  Lolita,  who,  it  was  solemnly  insisted, 
could  get  no  one  but  a Chinaman — Un  Chino,  un  Chino! 
0,  Lolita,  Lolita! 

The  dining-room  opened  on  the  patio,  and  after 
dinner  we  stood  by  the  rail  here,  under  the  stars,  or 
from  the  Moorish  balcony  in  front  watched  the  people 
passing  in  the  narrow  street.  Then  the  young  folks 
played  and  sang,  one  of  the  fiances  and  the  youngest 
sister,  flourishing  handkerchiefs,  danced  an  odd  native 
dance,  while  the  other,  who  had  travelled  much 
abroad,  illustrated  our  "cakky-wak,”  and  told  of  the 
wonders  of  our  musical  comedies,  where  "the  most 
beautiful  women  they  have,  in  the  loveliest  gowns — 
each  one  of  them,  herself,  a famous  beauty,  is  it  not 

98 


LIMA  AND  THE  PERUVIANS 


true,  senor ?”■ — appear,  and  the  ninas,  who  had  never 
seen  anything  but  the  South  American  chorus  ladies, 
which  are  like  our  grand  opera  chorus,  only  more  so, 
listened  open-eyed,  looking  every  now  and  then  to 
their  guests  for  confirmation. 

There  is  indeed  quite  another  side  to  the  Latin- 
American  family  life  than  the  barred  windows  and 
medievalism  of  which  we  hear  so  much.  The  mingling 
of  gallantry  and  domesticity,  this  cloistered  coquetry 
— benign  parents,  arch  senoritas,  roguish  big  brothers 
and  sons-in-law,  all  chattering  frivolously  and  good- 
humoredly  together,  is  very  charming.  It  is  a fine 
thing  to  think  about  life  and  to  reason  out  a scheme  of 
living.  But  it  is  also  something  not  to  have  made  it 
such  a heavy  duty  that  one  is  afraid  to  smile  thought- 
lessly lest  something  should  fall. 

After  you  have  said  your  good-night,  once  at  the 
door  upstairs  and  again  in  the  street,  to  those  laughing 
down  a “ Buenas  noches!”  from  the  balcony,  there  is 
still  time  to  look  in  at  the  theatre  and  see  the  last  tanda 
of  the  night.  Three  or  four  of  these  one-act  plays, 
generally  farces,  are  put  on,  and  one  may  buy  a ticket 
for  each,  or  reserve  a seat  for  the  whole  evening.  Most 
of  them  come  from  Spain — tiny  classics  some  are,  that 
have  been  played  for  years  in  little  zarzuela  theatres  all 
over  the  southern  continent.  Nowadays  many  are 
adaptations  from  English.  They  were  giving  an 
abridged  Geisha  lasting  about  an  hour  while  I was  in 
Lima,  but  by  far  the  most  popular  piece  was  that 
“ comico-Urico-bailable  farce”  entitled  ‘The  Eden 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


Club.’”  The  Eden  Club  was  adorned  with  such  dis- 
paraging mottoes  as  “Marry  and  Be  Sorry,”  “Matri- 
mony is  the  tomb  of  liberty,”  “Matrimony  is  a blind 
alley  with  no  way  out.”  It  was  a place  where  hus- 
bands could  gather  and  do  all  the  things  that  they 
could  not  do  at  home.  The  piece  began  with  the  initia- 
tion of  a new  member  to  entertain  whom  various 
dances  were  given  much  after  the  manner  of  our  musical 
comedy  songs  which  describe  the  girls  of  various  coun- 
tries. Each  national  dance  was  received  with  appropri- 
ate interest  and  applause,  but  when  the  orchestra  swung 
into  the  grand  old  tune  of  “ Hiawatha”  and  La  Yanki 
appeared  dancing  the  “cakky-wak,”  the  house  from 
parquet  to  gallery — where  the  little  cholo  boys  were 
baking  against  the  roof  at  five  cents  a head — went  wild. 

When  the  curtain  goes  down  on  the  last  tanda, 
Lima’s  busy  Sunday  is  over.  There  are  no  blazing 
restaurants,  as  in  Buenos  Aires.  As  the  audience 
shuffles  home  through  the  silent  street,  the  great  spike- 
studded  doors  are  bolted  and  the  balconies  dark. 
No  one  is  abroad  except  the  little  policemen,  or  some 
lone  inspector  in  French  uniform  riding  his  cavalry 
horse  in  slow  majesty  up  the  deserted  street.  The 
drowsy  hotel  watchman  climbs  out  of  his  blanket 
and  takes  one’s  key  from  the  rack.  The  rest  of  the 
night  is  silence,  broken  only  at  the  hours  when  the 
policeman’s  whistle  wails  at  the  street  crossing  below, 
and  is  answered  down  block  after  block  until  it  dies 
in  the  distance,  like  the  call  of  sentinels  watching  over 
a sleeping  army. 

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CHAPTER  VII 

ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 

There  are  moments  during  the  gringo's  introduction 
to  Bolivia  when  he  would  almost  give  his  letter  of 
credit  to  anyone  who  would  make  him  warm.  His 
friends  tell  him  of  mines  rich  beyond  the  dreams  of 
Pizarro,  of  railroads  that  are  going  to  do  what  the 
transcontinental  lines  did  for  the  States,  of  the  sturdi- 
ness and  backbone  of  this  mountain  people.  It’s  a 
great  country,  his  friends  say,  they’re  a wonderful 
little  people,  and  the  next  boom  that  strikes  South 
America  is  going  to  strike  here,  and  all  he  can  do  is  to 
nod  sympathetically,  wrap  his  arms  tighter  about  his 
chest,  and  dream  that  in  some  far-off  forgotten  clime 
people  are  still  smiling,  still  comfortable,  and  warm. 

Bolivia — I speak  now  of  practically  all  except  that 
eastern  part  which  slopes  down  to  the  tropical  forests 
of  the  Amazon  and  Paraguay  head-waters — occupies 
somewhat  the  same  relative  position  to  South  America 
that  a roof-garden  on  the  top  of  the  Metropolitan  Life 
Building  would  occupy  to  New  York.  It  is  the  highest 
inhabited  country  in  the  Western  Hemisphere,  the 
South  American  Thibet.  On  its  northern  border,  at 

101 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

an  altitude  of  12,500  feet,  one  steams  across  a lake 
seventeen  times  as  large  as  the  Lake  of  Geneva  in 
Switzerland — the  highest  body  of  wrater  which  has 
steam  navigation — and  from  here  southward  along 
the  plateau  bearing  the  cities  of  La  Paz,  Oruru,  and 
Potosi  to  the  Argentine  line,  in  a crystalline,  piercing 
atmosphere  that  dries  and  burns  the  unaccustomed 
skin,  people  are  living  and  working  at  heights  which, 
at  home,  are  supposed  to  be  reserved  for  mountain 
climbers,  condors,  and  eccentric  sheep. 

In  the  States,  the  ride  up  Pike’s  Peak  is  generally 
considered  something  of  a strain.  Pike’s  Peak  is 
14,500  feet  high.  I met  a young  American  mining 
engineer  at  Oruru  who  told  me  that  the  entrance  to 
his  shaft  was  between  17,000  and  18,000  feet,  and  that 
the  places  where  he  and  his  men  had  been  working 
wTere  so  near  the  sky  that  the  angels’  feet  stuck 
through  now  and  then. 

Inasmuch  as  the  country  lies  between  10°  and  23° 
South  Latitude — about  as  far  from  the  equator  as  the 
West  Indies — the  Bolivians  assume  that  they  are 
living  in  the  tropics  and  need  no  stoves.  Inasmuch 
as  the  entire  western  slope  of  the  Andes  and  most  of 
this  table-land  is  as  bare  of  timber  as  the  interior  of  a 
marble  quarry,  and  coal  costs  wholesale  in  La  Paz 
some  $30  gold  a ton,  it  would  make  little  difference 
whether  they  assumed  this  or  not.  The  result  is  that, 
except  for  cooking,  such  a thing  as  a premeditated  fire 
is  almost  unknown.  People  live  and  work,  even  give 
dinners  and  go  to  the  theatre,  in  a temperature  which 

102 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


would  make  outdoor  New  York  in  October  weather 
seem  like  a conservatory.  The  Indians  and  half- 
breeds,  which  make  up  from  eighty  to  ninety  per  cent, 
of  the  population,  wrap  themselves  in  picturesque 
homespun  ponchos,  and  are  quite  serene.  The  whites 
endure,  and,  when  they  can’t,  sit  in  their  overcoats. 
If  the  somewhat  academic  suggestion  might  be  vent- 
ured that  Bolivia  can  scarcely  accomplish  anything  in 
literature  or  art  unless  a coal-mine  is  discovered,  for 
the  fundamental  reason  that  no  matter  how  many 
fine  ideas  a man  has  he  cannot  write  or  paint  unless 
his  fingers  are  warm,  the  Bolivians  could  reply,  I sup- 
pose, that  as  soon  as  the  railroad  is  finished  into  the 
forest  country  there  will  be  wood  for  everybody;  that 
there  are  other  things  to  worry  about  while  roads  are 
so  bad,  and  tin  and  silver  running  what  they  are  a 
ton,  and  that  meanwhile  possibly  enough  lyricism  is 
already  being  emitted  by  neighbors  to  the  east  and 
west  and  on  the  Caribbean. 

Like  all  places  at  high  altitudes,  there  is  a great 
difference  between  the  spot  where  the  sun’s  rays 
directly  shine  and  that  in  the  shadow.  At  a place 
called  Uyuni — where  I was  colder  for  longer  than  at 
any  other  time  in  my  life — on  the  way  down  to  Chili 
from  La  Paz  the  mercury  on  the  porch  of  the  little 
railroad  hotel  stood  at  4°  above  zero  Fahrenheit  at 
seven  o’clock  in  the  morning.  The  water  in  the  pitchers 
was  frozen  into  stone,  and  there  was  absolutely  no  fire 
anywhere  in  the  hotel  except  in  the  kitchen.  There 
was  no  heat  in  the  cars,  and  the  sun — warm  enough 

103 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


outside — happened  to  shine  directly  behind  the  train. 
It  thus  remained,  thanks  to  the  insidious  curves  of  the 
track,  until  nearly  noon,  while  the  lone  Chilian  drum- 
mer and  I,  the  sole  occupants  of  the  car,  marched  up 
and  down  the  aisle,  singing,  whistling,  and  waving  our 
arms,  in  a state  of  acute  suffering.  After  such  a morn- 
ing, up  here  on  the  table-land  country,  it  will  be  balmy 
spring  at  noon,  and  actually  hot  toward  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon.  I asked  an  American  railroad  engineer, 
who  was  sleeping  with  his  construction  gang  out  on 
the  pampa  in  a tent  on  nights  like  these,  if  one  got  used 
to  it  after  a while.  “Oh,  yes,”  said  he,  cheerfully, 
“you  get  used  to  it.  You  don’t  get  warm.” 

It  is  not  with  any  desire  to  exploit  the  personal 
calorics  of  a lone  gringo  who  went  into  Bolivia  dressed, 
perhaps,  less  for  its  June  than  for  ours, — June  is,  of 
course,  midwinter  south  of  the  Equator — that  I have 
thus  accented  this  possibly  trivial  characteristic  of  the 
country,  but  solely  out  of  admiration  for  the  vigor  and 
fortitude  of  the  Bolivians.  Your  friends  do  not  need 
to  tell  you  that  they  are  a wonderful  people.  If  they 
were  not,  they  would  not  be  there  at  all. 

If  one  may  say  of  this  land  of  Bolivia  that  it  is  on 
the  roof  of  the  Western  world,  one  might  also  say  that 
the  only  way  to  get  there  is  by  climbing  the  fire-escape. 
When  the  war  with  Chili  ended — the  same  war  in 
which  Peru  lost  her  nitrate  provinces — her  strip  of  sea- 
coast  was  gone  and  she  was  walled  up  in  the  interior. 
Although  Chili  is  now  building  a railroad  through  from 
the  port  of  Arica  on  the  Pacific,  and  American  engi- 

104 


Mount  Misti  looking  down  from  its  nineteen  thousand  feet  on  the  roofs  of 

Arequipa. 


The  Buried  Valley  in  the  desert  in  which  the  ancient  town  of  Arequipa  lies. 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


neers  are  at  work  on  a system  which  will  connect 
La  Paz  with  Buenos  Aires  and  the  Atlantic,  there 
were,  when  I was  there,  only  two  really  practicable 
ways  of  getting  to  the  capital.  One  was  by  way  of  the 
Chilian  port  of  Antofagasta — three  days  by  rail  and 
two  by  stage  across  the  pampa;  the  other,  and  the  one 
generally  taken,  even  by  Chilians,  was  by  way  of  the 
Peruvian  port  of  Mollendo — two  days’  journey  by  rail, 
a night  by  steamer  across  Lake  Titicaca,  and  a few 
hours’  climb  by  rail  again  up  to  the  rim  of  the  mountain 
pocket,  at  the  bottom  of  which  lies  the  ancient  city  of 
Our  Lady  of  Peace. 

It  is  a climb  all  but  as  high  and  quite  as  wonderful 
as  that  up  the  Oroya  Railroad  in  Peru,  and  of  the  in- 
teresting things  which  it  reveals,  three  stand  out  from 
the  rest.  One  is  the  monkish  city  of  Arequipa  and 
Mount  Misti,  the  dead  volcano  that  looms  up  for  some 
nineteen  thousand  feet  above  it;  one  is  this  extraor- 
dinary sky-parlor  lake,  and  the  third  is  the  railroad 
itself.  The  gifted  Yankee  Meiggs  built  it — as  he  built 
the  Oroya — through  a country  the  greater  part  of 
which  is  as  bare  as  a stone  quarry,  without  fuel  or 
water  or  food,  where  even  a sage-brush  or  a cactus 
would  seem  luxuriant,  and  a rattlesnake  cheerfully 
human.  It  is  352  kilometers  from  the  coast  to  the 
shores  of  the  lake,  and  for  187  kilometers  of  the  way — 
about  115  miles — it  climbs  steadily  upward  to  a height 
of  14,666  feet. 

There  was  not  then,  nor  is  there  now, — 1908 — any 
wharf  to  which  steamers  could  tie  up  at  Mollendo,  and 

305 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


passengers  are  taken  ashore  in  small  boats  through  a 
sort  of  Niagara  gorge  gateway  of  rock,  which  gives  to 
mere  landing  some  of  the  noise  and  a good  deal  of  the 
excitement  of  a rescue  at  sea.  And  every  rail  and  tie 
for  that  road,  every  detached  bolt  and  plate  of  the 
little  steamships  that  now  navigate  Titicaca,  had  to 
be  landed  thus;  every  drop  of  water  to  be  piped 
down,  as  it  is  piped  to-day,  from  the  mountain  streams 
far  inland. 

Leaving  Mollendo,  the  train  trails  out  over  the 
desert  and  up  and  up  till  the  sea  lies  below  like  a blue 
floor,  falls  below  the  horizon  presently,  and  the  conical 
snow-capped  peaks  of  the  Cordillera  come  into  vision. 
There  is  one  glimpse  over  a rock  rim  of  a valley — one 
of  those  almost  dramatic  snow-watered  valleys  laid 
like  a strip  of  pea-green  tape  among  the  stones — then 
sand  and  volcanic  rock.  The  sand-storms  of  centuries 
have  dusted  the  earth’s  bleached  countenance,  even 
the  mountain  peaks,  with  a whitish,  leprous  film. 
Sometimes  one  even  mistakes  it  for  snow.  I have  never 
seen,  even  in  our  Southwestern  desert  country,  any- 
thing so  dead-looking  as  these  dusted  peaks  and  flinty 
ribs  standing  out  without  shadow  or  relief  in  the  clear 
blazing  sunshine.  It  is  as  though  life  had  left  them 
and  forgotten  them  since  the  day  of  creation,  and  the 
haze  was  not  so  much  any  common,  earthly  covering 
as  the  very  dust  of  ages  of  empty  years  gathered  upon 
them. 

All  day  the  train  climbs  through  empty,  echoing  halls 
of  rock;  then,  all  at  once — in  one  of  those  hidden  val- 

106 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


leys  which  the  old  conquerors  seemed  as  fond  of  seek- 
ing out  as  though  they  were  ingenious  promoters  pro- 
viding surprises  for  travellers  of  years  to  come — the 
town  of  Arequipa;  trees  and  gardens,  a running  stream, 
and  oxen  at  the  plough,  a sun-bleached  plaza,  and  a 
yellow  cathedral,  friars  in  sandals,  white  robes  and 
brown,  taking  their  sunset  walk  along  the  canal ; 
schoolboys  playing  English  “footer”  in  the  dust,  toy 
tram-cars  bumping  through  the  cobbled  streets;  on 
the  bill-boards  a notice  of  to-night’s  biograph  show,  and 
of  that  “viejo  y famoso  remedio  ” — Perry  Davis’s  Pain 
Killer,  or,  as  they  have  it  here,  Matadolor  de  Perry 
Davis. 

Arequipa  is  the  ecclesiastical  stronghold  of  Southern 
Peru.  Of  the  thirty  thousand  people  who  inhabit  this 
ancient  oasis,  at  least  one  out  of  every  fifty  is  in  the 
service  of  the  Church;  there  are  four  monasteries  and 
three  nunneries,  and  the  whole  town  is  as  antique  as  a 
piece  of  Inca  pottery  dug  up  out  of  the  ground.  It  is 
the  home  also  of  several  higher  schools  of  learning — an 
ideal  shelter  for  that  fond  bookishness  so  often  found 
in  isolated  South  American  towns.  Here,  for  in- 
stance, in  the  evening  paper,  “La  Bolsa,”  the  entire 
front  page,  except  for  advertisements,  is  devoted  to  a 
review  of  a book  of  poems,  “Vibraciones  Psiquicas” 
and  others,  by  one  E.  Zegarra  Ballon.  The  reviewer, 
who  regrets  that  “La  Bolsa”  has  offered  him  only 
three  columns,  evidently  does  not  admire  Sehor  Ballon, 
nor  his  friend  Arispe,  who,  “since  he  has  been  editing 
cablegrams  of  fifty-one  words  for  ‘La  Prensa’  of  Lima, 

107 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


considers  himself  a prosista,”  just  as  Ballon  considers 
himself  a poet.  He  tears  his  verse  to  pieces,  phrase  by- 
phrase,  pounds  away  mightily  at  “anterior  asonants,” 
hemistiches,  and  the  like,  and  finally,  collecting  the 
phrases  which  particularly  get  on  his  nerves,  he  re- 
quests his  readers,  amigos  mios,  to  repeat  the  following 
litany: 

Glacial  frescura  . . . 

Oh,  Zegarra  Ballon! 

Dias  oscuros  . . . 

Oh,  Zegarra  Ballon! 

Jazmines  lacios  . . . 

Oh,  Zegarra  Ballon! 

Bellos  cenidores  . . . 

Oh,  Zegarra  Ballon!  etc. 

And  he  concludes  by  inviting  them  to  read  on 
Friday  Chapter  III  of  the  thirty  which  Cervantes  for- 
got to  write;  which  tells  “ how  Don  Quixote  came  to 
the  city  beneath  Mount  Misti  with  his  faithful  squire 
in  search  of  those  horrible  giants,  Arispe  and  Zagarron, 
of  his  meeting  with  these  geniuses  of  journalism  and 
poetry,  and  of  the  ill  success  which  they  had  with  him 
of  La  Mancha.” 

Three  things  especially  interested  me  in  Arequipa:  the 
dusty  Old-World  atmosphere,  snow-capped  Misti  always 
brooding  there,  and  the  Harvard  Observatory,  which 
stands  on  a rise  of  ground  overlooking  the  town.  The 
telescope  here  takes  care  of  the  southern  sky  as  the 
one  in  Cambridge  does  of  the  northern — trailing  about 
the  heavens  each  night  after  the  variable  stars.  It  is 

108 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


not  really,  in  the  street-corner  meaning  of  the  word, 
so  much  a telescope  as  it  is  a huge  camera.  A plate 
is  exposed  and  the  stars  shine  upon  it.  The  longer  the 
exposure,  the  more  stars  eat  through  the  film,  as  it 
were,  and  leave  their  mark,  and  by  exposing  it  for  many 
hours  the  resulting  print  looks  like  a drawing  in  stippled 
ink.  In  this  way  thousands  of  stars  which  could  not 
even  be  seen  through  a strong  telescope  are  located 
with  precision.  By  putting  one  plate  over  another, 
eyes  trained  for  this  kind  of  work  can  tell  if  there  are 
new  stars,  and  when  such  a discovery  is  made  the  new 
star  is  catalogued  and  filed  away  for  reference.  Every 
clear  night  the  big  telescope  is  opened  for  the  starlight  to 
shine  in,  like  a well  waiting  for  the  rain,  and  the  young 
New  Englanders  stand  by,  watching  the  clockwork 
and  the  crossed  hairs  by  which  the  plate,  turning  with 
the  heavens,  is  kept  at  precisely  the  same  points,  each 
having  his  trick  at  the  wheel,  so  to  speak,  like  men  at  sea. 

This  little  oasis — the  house  with  its  brisk  cheerful- 
ness of  wood,  the  hedges  and  tennis-court,  the  very 
twang  of  the  New  England  accent — might  have  been 
sent  down  from  Massachusetts  in  a box.  From  the 
upper  veranda  you  can  look  down  on  the  yellow  walls 
and  church-towers  of  the  town,  the  tawny  flanks  of 
mountains  that  blaze  in  the  afternoon  sun  like  the 
yellow  mountains  Maxfield  Parrish  paints,  and  Mount 
Misti  lifting  up  its  mysterious  and  creepy  head  as 
smooth  almost  from  floor  to  peak  as  some  titanic  tent. 
From  our  chairs  on  the  veranda  the  crater  was  about 
ten  miles  in  an  air  line,  and  through  a field  telescope 

109 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


we  could  plainly  see  the  cross  that  was  planted  there 
when  the  twentieth  century  came  in.  There  was  tennis 
on  an  asphalt  court  at  the  Observatory — one  feels  like 
a dweller  on  Olympus  playing  under  the  gaze  of  Misti 
in  that  crystalline  air.  English-speaking  folk  would 
come  up  on  horseback  from  the  town,  and  afterward 
there  would  be  tea  in  the  twilight  of  that  blazing,  un- 
earthly light.  With  the  Old-World  town  below  it,  and 
Misti  watching  by,  this  little  oasis  stands  out  in  one’s 
memory — a different,  unexpected  thing,  complete  unto 
itself  in  all  this  alien  wilderness,  like  a ship  at  sea. 
The  priests  say  their  masses  year  in  and  year  out  in 
the  town  below,  more  mines  are  exploited,  politicians 
rage,  drummers,  gold-hunters,  heathen,  imagine  vain 
things,  but  up  on  their  cloistered  mount  its  inhabitants 
pursue  their  quiet  way,  resting  through  the  heat  of  the 
day,  playing  their  home  games  as  the  sun  goes  down, 
at  night,  when  all  the  rest  of  their  alien  world  is 
asleep,  working  away  through  the  still  hours  with 
their  glittering  dust-cloud  stars. 

As  you  leave  the  coast  and  climb  to  the  colder  levels, 
the  temperament  of  the  humans  changes  with  the  air 
and  landscape.  The  mountain  people  are  sturdier  and 
more  phlegmatic,  less  vivacious  and  eager.  Some  such 
contrast  is  the  easiest  generalization  to  be  made  of 
Bolivians  as  compared  with  Peruvians ; it  applies  even 
half-way  up  the  slope  to  such  a buried  city  as  Arequipa 
compared  with  Lima  and  the  coast. 

On  Arequipa,  too,  broods  the  spell  of  the  ancient 
Church.  By  the  time  I had  dined  the  evening  I 

110 


Looking  across  the  central  plaza  at  Arequipa.  Gateway  leading  to  the  cathedral  entrance, 

Arequipa. 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


arrived  and  started  forth  to  look  at  the  town,  it  lay 
dead  and  silent  under  its  cold  stars,  the  only  sound  the 
rush  of  mountain  water  in  the  open  drains.  But  there 
was  light  in  the  cathedral,  and  within  on  the  floor — for 
there  were  no  pews — knelt,  it  seemed,  all  the  women  in 
the  town,  like  so  many  black-birds  in  their  sable  mantos, 
whispering  and  crossing  themselves.  Here  were  the 
lights  and  the  ambitious  glitter  and  the  antiphonal 
choruses  echoing  through  the  arches,  yet  outside  no 
background  of  noise  and  busy  worklliness  to  put  it  in 
its  place.  It  was  as  though  all  the  town  were  turned 
into  a cloister;  as  though,  having  no  opportunity  to 
sin,  it  were  determined  to  carry  out  the  other  end  of 
the  bargain  at  any  rate,  and  fancy  itself  condemned. 

The  flesh  was  not  altogether  neglected,  however,  that 
night,  and  toward  nine  o’clock,  a few  squares  away,  a 
lonely  little  band,  muffled  in  ponchos  and  neck-scarfs, 
tooted  in  the  frosty  air,  calling  the  men-folks  and  the 
irreligious  to  an  exhibition  of  the  American  biograph. 

The  latter  has  become  almost  an  institution  in  parts 
of  South  America.  Where  no  other  theatrical  enter- 
tainment is  to  be  had,  one  will  generally  find  a biograph 
show.  “All  the  world  ought  to  have  one,”  an  ad- 
vertisement in  the  paper  read  that  night — “I.  Fam- 
ilies: For  its  modern  repertoire  of  operas,  zarzuelas, 
etc.,  to  pass  happy  and  diverting  moments  without 
going  out  of  the  house  in  the  evening.  II.  Merchants: 
To  attract  the  attention  of  the  public  to  their  estab- 
lishments. III.  Proprietors  of  haciendas:  To  amuse 
their  workmen  on  Sundays.” 

Ill 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


There  was  so  much  Indian  blood  in  the  audience 
that  night,  as  is  always  the  case  in  the  interior,  that  it 
suggested  a crowd  of  Japanese  soldiers.  Broad- 
cheeked and  stolid  they  sat  while  the  great  world 
flickered  before  them.  From  Norway  to  Damascus  we 
jumped,  from  Jerusalem  to  Paris  and  Madrid — the 
fountains  playing  at  Versailles,  Hebrews  kissing  the 
Wall  of  Lamentations,  a “pony”  ballet  in  a musical 
comedy,  skeeing  in  Norway,  with  fresh-cheeked  girls 
sweeping  almost  out  of  the  picture  and  into  the  audi- 
torium, the  snow  spraying  from  the  skees,  the  wind 
blowing  their  hair  across  their  faces,  laughing  as  they 
came.  There  was  a royal  bull-fight  at  Madrid — even 
the  sweating  flanks  of  the  bull  panting  up  and  down, 
the  pretty  bonnet  of  some  tourist  which,  in  the  excite- 
ment, had  insisted  in  bobbing  in  front  of  the  camera. 

I am  not  an  agent  for  any  picture-machine,  but  I 
must  confess  that  it  seemed  rather  wonderful  to  me, 
this  very  glitter  and  pulse-beat  of  Europe  up  here  in  a 
stoveless  theatre  among  a lot  of  Indians.  And  I re- 
gret that  the  audience  showed  much  more  enthusiasm 
over  a Byronic  young  man  who  gave  an  imitation  of 
the  battle  of  the  Yalu  on  a guitar,  and  stood  in  the 
cobbled  court  outside  wrapped  in  a velveteen  cloak 
and  gazed  at  us  superciliously  as  we  started  home. 

Between  Arequipa  and  Lake  Titicaca  the  leprous 
desert  gives  way  to  grassy  table-lands  and  yawning 
sinks,  like  dried-up  lakes,  from  the  rims  of  which,  as 
the  train  creaks  round,  you  can  see  ant  armies  of  sheep 
grazing  the  bottoms  a mile  or  so  below.  There  are 

112 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


llamas  and  alpacas  up  here,  and  wild  ducks  and  other 
water-fowl.  It  is  as  though — and  this  is  the  feeling 
one  has  all  through  the  country  from  Titicaca  down  the 
Bolivian  plateau — this  were  a new  world,  having  all 
the  physical  conformation  of  our  common  seaboard 
world,  and  set  on  the  very  top  of  it.  Here,  for  instance, 
is  this  extraordinary  lake,  something  like  135  miles 
long  and  70  miles  wide,  and  over  1,000  feet  deep  at 
its  deepest.  Snow  peaks  climb  up  into  the  blue  all 
about  it  as  though  they  had  forgotten  that  they  were 
beginning  not  at  the  sea  level,  but  at  12,500  feet;  you 
take  a little  steamer  with  stewards  and  state-rooms  and 
all  the  rest  of  the  ocean  paraphernalia  in  miniature, 
and  ride  all  night  and  part  of  the  next  day — people 
even  get  seasick  if  it’s  windy. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  islands  of  Titicaca  that  its  illus- 
trious progenitors  are  believed  to  have  started  the  Inca 
race,  and  the  ruins  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun  still  are 
there  to  prove  that  this  is  true.  All  round  the  lake  rise 
terraced  fields  in  the  Inca  fashion,  with  little  brown 
villages  and  church-towers  here  and  there.  It  re- 
minded me,  in  its  narrower  parts,  of  what  the  Mohawk 
Valley  might  be  were  it  half-full  of  water;  and  very 
lovely  it  was  with  its  cultivated  shores  and  water-fowl 
and  Illimani  and  Sorata  and  their  snow-capped  brothers 
glistening  in  the  sun. 

From  the  Bolivian  side  of  the  lake  it  is  a two  hours’ 
railroad  ride  through  a chocolate-colored  country, 
furnished  with  prehistoric  monuments  and  herdsmen  in 
ponchos,  to  the  rim  of  a valley,  at  the  bottom  of  which, 

113 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


with  a dramatic  suddenness  for  which  the  old  conquerors 
never  prepared  more  skilfully,  appear  the  roofs  of  La 
Paz.  They  lie  more  than  a thousand  feet  below,  and 
one  could,  as  the  phrase  goes,  almost  drop  a stone  on 
them.  No  railroad  could  make  such  a descent,  and 
you  reach  the  town — together  with  the  freight  that  has 
been  lightered,  loaded,  and  unloaded  goodness  knows 
how  many  times  in  crossing  the  Isthmus,  riding  through 
the  Mollendo  surf,  getting  over  Titicaca — by  serpen- 
tining down  on  a trolley-car,  the  power  for  which  was 
supplied  when  I was  there  by  imported  coal  at  $30 
“gold  ” a ton. 

La  Paz  started  out  in  1548  as  Nuestra  Senora  de  la 
Paz,  but  after  the  battle  of  Ayacucho,  which  about 
finished  Spanish  rule  in  South  America,  it  became  La 
Paz  de  Ayacucho,  so  that  the  “peace”  now  referred  to 
is  that  which  the  battle  brought.  It  has  sixty  thousand 
people,  and  they  live  in  very  solid  stone  houses  up  and 
down  hills  so  steep  that  there  is  almost  no  practical  use 
for  a horse  and  carriage. 

All  the  work  and  the  burden-bearing  are  done  by 
cholos  or  Indians,  who  have  the  good  taste  to  dress 
themselves  in  homespun  ponchos  in  beautiful  reds, 
browns,  old  roses,  and  greens,  which,  when  sufficiently 
soiled  and  sun-bleached,  take  on  all  the  soft  richness 
of  Oriental  rugs.  The  result  is  that  every  vista  of 
narrow  cobblestoned  street  is  brightened  and  enriched 
by  them,  and  when  one  thinks  of  La  Paz  one  sees  these 
satisfying  ponchos — like  poppies  growing  in  a field  of 
grain. 


114 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LAPAZ 


There  are  a great  many  Indians  in  La  Paz,  and  they 
and  their  extraordinary  fiestas,  when  they  dress  up  as 
cows,  Empire  dandies,  and  what  not,  and  dance  in 
front  of  the  cathedral,  give  the  town  a color  which 
rather  sets  it  apart  from  other  South  American  capi- 
tals. The  Indian  women  of  the  better  class — the 
various  grades  of  Aymara,  Quichua,  and  cholo  are  too 
complex  to  be  explained  here — are  great  belles  and 
wear  curious  little  round  straw  hats  with  narrow 
brims,  silken  shawls  on  feast  days,  and  an  assortment 
of  skirts  that  make  them  almost  as  broad  as  they  are 
long.  Whenever  they  have  saved  enough  money  they 
invest  in  another  skirt,  and  popular  tradition  is  that 
these  are  put  on,  one  over  the  other,  and  never  taken 
off.  The  result  is  not  only  extraordinary  to  behold, 
but  something  which  keeps  them  warm,  satisfies  their 
vanity,  and  performs  the  functions  of  a savings 
bank. 

There  is  a story  told  of  a British  premier  who,  when 
the  British  minister  was  ridden  out  of  La  Paz  on  a 
donkey,  ordered  a fleet  to  proceed  to  the  Pacific  at 
once  and  shell  the  town ! When  he  was  informed  that 
it  was  several  days’  journey  inland  and  two  miles  up 
in  the  air  he  decided  that  a capital  whose  location  the 
British  Government  did  not  know  could  not  exist. 
The  minister  to  Bolivia  was  therefore  recalled,  and  no 
diplomatic  relations  existed  between  the  two  countries 
for  some  years.  It  is  a curious  fact  that,  in  spite  of 
its  isolation  and  its  unspoiled  Indians,  and  the  troops 
of  llamas  that  are  as  common  in  its  streets  as  electric 

115 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


cars  on  Broadway,  La  Paz  is,  by  reason  of  the  great 
mining  activity  in  Bolivia,  unusually  cosmopolitan, 
and  the  cafe  of  its  principal  hotel  toward  the  end  of 
the  afternoon  buzzes  with  more  businesslike-appearing 
men,  perhaps,  than  any  other  place  on  the  West  Coast 
outside  of  Valparaiso. 

The  sight  of  them  was  surprising  and  exhilarating 
away  up  here  in  the  air,  as  was  the  dining-room  full 
of  folks  chattering  almost  as  much  English  and  German 
as  Spanish.  It  was  a very  excellent  table-d’hote  they 
served  us  that  night,  even  though  Irish  stew  was 
spelled  “ Airistiu ,”  and  the  vast  room  into  which  I 
was  presently  ushered — possibly  because  the  govern- 
ment of  half  the  town  had  gone  across  the  pampa  to 
Oruru  to  dedicate  a new  railroad — with  a canopied 
bedstead,  was  almost  as  imposing  as  those  which  are 
reserved  at  home  for  visiting  princes  of  Abyssinia  or 
Siam. 

Bolivia  has  enormous  resources,  a sturdy  people,  and 
almost  no  debt.  All  the  country  needs  is  a continua- 
tion of  stable  government  and  better  means  of  com- 
munication. It  is  more  than  three  times  as  large  as 
France,  it  has  rubber,  coca,  coffee  and  cocoa,  and  its 
mineral  wealth  is  incalculable.  The  mines  of  Potosi, 
from  which  Spain  took  six  hundred  million  dollars 
worth  of  silver  before  Bolivia  became  independent,  a 
hundred  years  ago,  are  still  yielding.  There  is  copper 
and  gold,  but  the  stake  now  raced  for,  and  that  which 
is  bringing  in  the  skilled  preparedness  of  modern  min- 
ing, is  that  very  precious  non-' ‘precious”  metal — tin. 

116 


ACROSS  LAKE  TITICACA  TO  LA  PAZ 


Few  countries  have  this  metal,  and  Bolivia  is  one  of 
them,  and  the  quantity  of  it  already  in  sight  is  one  of 
the  main  forces  behind  the  development,  upon  whose 
threshold  this  hermit  country  now  stands. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 

If  you  ever  crossed  an  Arizona  desert  in  a covered 
wagon — lashing  the  fagged,  sweat-clotted  horses  for- 
ward foot  by  foot,  until  you  reached  the  water  tank  at 
last  and  skimmed  off  toward  the  horizon  with  the  Over- 
land ; if  you  ever  struggled  through  the  northern  woods 
in  winter,  with  your  mittens  freezing  the  moment  you 
paused,  no  food  or  matches  in  your  clothes,  until, 
some  time  in  the  night  you  stumbled  on  station  lamps, 
met  the  confident  shine  of  steel  rails  and  sank  into  the 
blessed,  steam-heated  Philistine  embrace  of  a Pullman 
car — you  will  have  difficulty  in  reading  what  Mr. 
Ruskin  had  to  say  about  railroads  with  the  proper 
superior  thrill. 

What  a railroad  system  might  mean  to  a country 
three  times  as  large  as  France,  shut  away  from  the  sea 
in  the  upper  stories  of  the  Andes  and  traversed  by 
little  else  than  mule-paths  and  llama-trails,  is  not 
hard  to  imagine.  Such  a hermit  country  was 
Bolivia  in  the  days  wrhen  Don  Quixote  told  Sancho 
Panza  about  the  mines  of  Potosi,  and,  such,  except 
for  two  arms  of  railroad,  it  is  to-day — although  the 
mines  of  Potosi  still  yield,  syndicates  and  steam  and 

118 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 

smelters  have  replaced  llama-trails  and  Indian  slaves, 
and  the  old  stories  of  silver  and  gold  bid  fair  to  be 
repeated  of  tin. 

And  on  the  Fourthof  July,  1906,  at  the  town  of  Oruru, 
in  the  centre  of  that  twelve-thousand-foot  table-land, 
which  stretches  between  the  heads  of  the  Andes  from 
Lake  Titicaca  to  La  Paz  down  past  Sucre  and  Potosi 
to  Argentina,  they  began  to  build  the  railroad  which 
is  to  change  things.  It  will  put  ore  trains  and  pas- 
senger cars  up  in  this  thin-air  mine  country,  open 
up  the  tropical  forest  country  of  Eastern  Bolivia  and 
connect  the  plateau  cities  with  each  other,  with  Buenos 
Aires  and  with  the  Pacific.  The  wealth  of  the  country 
will  be  opened  to  those  ready  to  develop  it;  the  cold 
plateau  cities,  which  scarcely  know  what  fires  are, 
may  be  able  to  warm  themselves;  the  government 
will  cease  to  travel  about  on  mule-back,  and  little- 
old-Bolivia-up-in-the-air  will  be  a hermit  no  more. 

At  least  that  was  what  the  Government  party 
thought,  and  the  blonde  young  Yankee  engineers  who 
were  on  the  job,  and,  one  supposes,  the  New  York 
bankers  who  were  putting  up  the  money.  The  Presi- 
dent, a good  part  of  the  army,  the  diplomatic  corps, 
most  of  the  business  men  of  La  Paz,  and  the  Arch- 
bishop himself  travelled  nearly  two  hundred  miles 
across  the  bleak  pampa  to  turn  over  with  due  dignity 
the  first  shovelful  of  earth;  and  because  North  Amer- 
icans were  building  the  road  they  chose  to  do  this  on 
the  Fourth  of  July. 

“If,”  said  El  Tribuno,  “the  Sixth  of  August, 

119 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


1S25,  marks  the  beginning  of  our  political  independence, 
the  beginning  of  our  industrial  independence,  which  is 
an  indispensable  complement  of  the  first,  will  be 
marked  by  the  Fourth  of  July,  1906. 

“Jul}r  is  the  month  of  great  events.  Foremost  is 
the  anniversary  of  the  independence  of  the  United 
States  of  North  America,  indisputably  the  first  of  the 
younger  peoples,  and  one  of  the  mightiest  Powers  on 
earth. 

“Here  is  a race  which,  casting  from  it  the  lyric 
dreams  of  the  Latin  soul  and  looking  at  life  in  another 
way,  would  seem,  by  the  success  with  which  it  dom- 
inates present-day  civilization,  better  to  have  under- 
stood the  destiny  of  humanity  and  to  have  discovered 
the  key  of  gold  to  unlock  all  those  problems  which 
have  troubled  the  world  for  so  many  centuries.” 

My  own  personal  and  physical  understanding  of 
what  the  Ferrocarriles  de  Oruro  a Cochmnbamba  will 
bring  to  Bolivia  began  some  one  hundred  and  eighty- 
six  miles  up  the  frozen  plateau  when  the  bi-weekly 
stage  started  from  La  Paz.  The  stage  line  was  owned 
by  a young  Scotchman,  who  had  changed  his  first 
name  to  a Spanish  equivalent,  “Santiago,”  because, 
as  you  would  readily  have  understood  had  you  heard 
him  imitate  it,  he  didn’t  like  the  Bolivian  pronuncia- 
tion of  “James.”  One  could  travel  with  the  mail  all 
day  and  all  night  at  a gallop  and  reach  Oruro  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  or  one  could  pay  half  as  much,  sleep  at  the 
Indian  town  of  Sicasica  and  do  the  sixty-two  leagues 
in  thirty-six.  I chose  the  slower  way,  and  at  dawn  we 

120 


President  Montes  and  his  escort  at  the  end  of  their  two-hundred-mile  drive 
from  La  Paz  to  Oruro,  across  the  Bolivian  Plateau. 


President  Montes  and  the  Archbishop  just  after  turning  the  first  shovelful 
of  earth  on  the  new  railway. 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


serpentined  by  trolley  car  up  from  the  sink-like  pocket, 
fifteen  hundred  feet  deep,  at  the  bottom  of  which  lies 
the  City  of  Peace.  Frost  mist  still  lay  over  the  town 
like  wool,  but  the  sun  had  climbed  over  the  far  edge  of 
the  earth  and  was  flinging  its  level  rays  wide  over  the 
empty  plateau.  Something  in  its  cold  blaze,  in  the 
thin  air,  as  piercing  as  that  of  mid-winter  in  New 
York,  in  this  table-land  lifted  twelve  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea,  gave  one  the  sensation  of  walking  on 
the  top  of  the  world. 

Six  shop-worn  mules  and  an  army  wagon  waited  at 
the  top,  and  into  it  bundled  the  eight  of  us — two 
bearded  German  engineers,  a pretty  German  woman, 
who  was  wondering  whether  her  Mann  would  meet 
her  at  the  other  side  of  the  desert,  and  several  Bolivians 
— a young  man  with  shifty  little  black  eyes  and  a way 
of  holding  a cigarette  as  though  it  were  a club,  the 
lighted  end  inside  his  palm;  an  old  man  and  his  shy 
granddaughter,  and  a severe,  middle-aged  woman  in  a 
shabby  black  plush  coat  and  a rakish,  drooping  black 
hat.  She  had  a fine  aquiline  profile  and  keen,  dis- 
illusioned eyes,  and  reminded  one  of  some  of  our  very 
literary  and  rather  leathery  ladies  at  home.  Most  of 
the  time  she  drowsed,  with  her  head  drooping  on  her 
breast  like  some  damp  bird,  a reverie  from  which  she 
would  shake  herself  to  smoke  a cigarette,  holding  it 
close  to  her  face  in  her  right  hand,  the  elbow  supported 
in  the  palm  of  her  left  while  she  gazed  at  it  sullenly 
through  narrowed  lids. 

The  chariot  got  under  way  with  a shower  of  stones, 

121 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


considerable  cracking  of  the  whip,  and  a long  whistle 
with  a hiss  in  the  middle  of  it — a wild,  vicious  sound, 
as  if  of  a doom  approaching  rapidly  from  behind  and 
about  to  overwhelm  us.  A little  Indian  boy  stood  on 
the  back  step  or  ran  alongside,  and  it  was  his  duty  to 
keep  this  eerie  whistle  going  constantly,  to  lash  each 
mule  in  turn  on  its  raw  spot,  throw  stones  at  its  head, 
and  supply  the  same  ammunition  to  the  driver.  This 
is  rapid  transit  in  Bolivia. 

From  the  moment  we  started,  until  sundown  the 
next  night,  except  while  we  slept  or  paused  for  new 
mules  and  coffee  at  the  little  mud  tambos  along  the 
way,  that  goading  whistle  was  always  in  our  ears,  like 
the  blowing  of  a steady  gale.  Whee-ee-ee-eu!  Tzs- 
tzss-tzss!  Whee-ee-ee-eu!  Sometimes  between  popu- 
lous villages  we  had  two  boys,  sturdy,  bright-eyed 
mites  in  dusty  ponchos , with  the  crimson-russet  cheeks 
which  come  to  those  who  live  in  the  thin  air  and 
blazing  sunlight  of  the  Andean  plateau,  and  hands  and 
bare  feet  so  ground  in  with  dirt  that  they  had  become 
black  and  leathery,  like  the  web-foot  of  a goose  or 
duck.  One  whipped  and  the  other  threw  stones  or 
picked  them  up  for  the  driver.  They  followed  us,  as 
gulls  follow  a ship,  from  village  to  village.  As  tireless 
they  were  as  gulls,  and  as  free,  these  brown,  bare- 
headed little  coach-dogs,  running  along  for  miles  and 
miles.  With  what  an  earnest  importance  they  kept 
to  their  work,  pushed  in  the  gullies,  and  dug  their 
horny  little  toes  into  the  gravel — as  though  they  knew 
they  were  helping  in  the  work  of  the  great  world.  No 

122 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


master  but  the  relentless  gallop  of  the  six-mule  team; 
here  to-night,  there  to-morrow;  supper  in  the  tambo 
kitchen;  his  bed  where  his  poncho  was;  the  chance — 
who  could  tell  when? — of  a munificent  passenger  toss- 
ing out  a complete,  unlighted  cigarette.  If  one  must 
live  in  a dried-mud  village  on  the  top  of  the  world,  how 
superior  and  glorious  a life! 

All  the  way  the  bleak  plateau  lay  a yellow  trough 
between  the  horizon  mountains,  treeless  and  grassless, 
with  occasional  patches  of  barley  in  waffle-iron,  walled- 
in  fields.  Every  ten  kilometres  or  so  was  a baked- 
mud  village,  exactly  like  the  one  left  behind,  where  one 
could  almost  always  get  hot  coffee,  pie-crusty  native 
bread,  cigarettes,  good  bottled  beer,  and  clumsy 
dulces.  And  that  night,  when  we  lifted  our  half- 
frozen  bodies  out  of  the  stage,  the  poor  German  lady 
panting  with  siroche,  there  awaited  us  a cheerful  post- 
house  dining-room,  warmed  and  lighted  by  an  enor- 
mous kerosene  lamp,  a supper  of  soup,  sardines,  mut- 
ton, potatoes,  jam,  and  what  not,  that  melted  into  our 
yawning  interiors  like  the  honey  of  Hymettus. 

The  bedrooms  straggled  around  the  three  sides  of 
the  patio,  each  with  one  window  and  a door  opening 
on  the  court  as  from  a cave.  Two  Bolivians  from  the 
up  stage  were  already  reposing  in  mine,  after  having 
hermetically  sealed  both  window  and  door.  When  I 
attempted  to  introduce  a whisper  of  ventilation  they 
declared,  in  vehement  Spanish,  that  I didn’t  under- 
stand the  customs  of  the  country  and  we  would  die  of 
pneumonia  before  morning.  And  as  both  were  able- 

123 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


bodied  and  mercurial-looking  gentlemen  with  revolvers 
lying  on  chairs  close  to  their  pillows,  we  compromised 
by  blowing  out  the  candle,  and  bolting  the  door  noisily, 
under  cover  of  which  the  minority  member  deftly  put 
his  fist  through  one  of  the  panes  of  paper  which  served 
for  window  glass,  and  undoubtedly  saved  the  lives  of 
all  three. 

In  the  pitch  darkness  of  4 a.m.  there  was  a knock, 
and  a “Buenos  dias,  sehores!  Vamos!  Vamos!” 
And  so  up  and  into  our  clothes  and  off  again — Whee- 
ee-ee-eu!  Tzs-tzss-tzss!  Whee-ee-ee-eu ! — everybody 

chattering  and  filled  with  the  excitement  and  optimism 
which  follow  getting  up  at  dark,  drinking  two  or  three 
cups  of  hot  coffee,  and  starting  for  a strange  place. 
The  curtains  were  drawn  tight  for  warmth’s  sake;  in 
this  inner  cosiness  the  runner’s  hissing  whistle  sounds 
far-away  and  cheery,  like  the  faint  wail  of  the  loco- 
motive as  an  express  train  whirls  at  night  through  the 
rain,  and  we  chatted  with  the  good-natured  friend- 
liness proper  to  fellow-travellers  on  the  open  road, 
laughing  across  the  light  of  a couple  of  dripping  can- 
dles which  we  took  turns  holding,  like  beatas  in  a 
church. 

In  the  alertness  which  comes  at  such  an  hour,  every 
material  happening  became  something  vivid,  fine  and 
newly  significant — the  creak  of  the  carriage,  the  rising 
glimmer  in  the  east,  the  glitter  of  the  cold  stars  through 
the  curtain  flaps,  the  different  noises  of  the  wheels. 

Once  the  sound  changed  and  became  soft.  “Arena!” 
mumbled  one  of  the  bearded  Teutons  in  Spanish,  and 

124 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


it  seemed  immensely  important  that  we  were  pulling 
through  sand.  The  German  lady,  recovering  from  her 
siroche,  began  to  talk  about  the  lunch — waiting  for  us 
forty  kilometres  farther  on — with  that  affectionate 
contemplation,  almost  sentiment,  with  which  the  Ger- 
mans speak  of  such  things.  Stroking  with  a sort  of 
tender  melancholy  the  vicuna  rug  spread  over  her 
knee,  she  wondered  if  vicunas  were  good  to  eat.  One 
of  the  bearded  engineers  nodded  solemnly:  “Ein 
junger  vicuna  schmeckt  ganz  gut!”  said  he.  Every- 
body puffed  his  cigarette  a little  harder,  and  nodded 
approvingly — it  was  as  though  in  that  rocking  stage, 
in  the  flicker  of  our  feeble  candles,  we  were  at  a 
banquet,  discussing  the  bouquet  of  some  exquisite 
wine. 

Nothing  about  that  ride  was  lost — the  rattle  and 
the  dust,  the  tawny,  vacuous  landscape;  the  very 
chill  and  sterile  soul  of  that  roofland  was  worn  into 
our  very  flesh.  And  yet  one  will  ride  from  New  York 
to  Chicago,  through  a country  many  times  fairer,  and 
of  all  the  messages  it  has  to  give  carry  away  only 
a fretful  memory  of  noise  and  telegraph  posts  and 
the  wretched  air  of  the  sleeping  car  in  which  one  gets 
up  in  the  morning.  There  was  something  in  the  old 
way  after  all! 

Dawn  crept  up  over  the  eaves  of  the  east,  the  can- 
dles faded  sickly,  the  exhilaration  of  the  start  drowsed 
away,  and  we  crept  into  our  shells  and  stayed  there. 
But  steadily  the  pelted  mules  galloped  on;  always, 
like  a stage  storm-maker,  came  the  windy  whistle  and 

125 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


hiss  of  the  driver  and  the  cliicos  running  alongside. 
One  could  not  sit  beside  the  driver  for  a few  miles 
without  increasing  one’s  already  high  regard  for  mules. 
Each  had  a raw  spot  on  his  hind  leg  where  continuous 
lashing  had  worn  through,  stones  big  enough  almost 
to  fell  an  ox  rained  about  their  devoted  heads  and 
were  shaken  off  like  so  many  flies.  The  mercurial 
driver  did  all  he  could  to  impede  progress  by  whipping 
them  about  their  ears  and  tangling  up  his  team.  Yet, 
with  nothing  to  back  them  up  but  barley  straw,  they 
managed  to  pound  on  league  after  league  at  a gallop, 
and  when  they  slipped  out  of  harness  at  last,  reeking, 
the  only  grooming  they  got  was  a roll  in  the  tambo 
corral  till  the  raw  spots  were  covered  with  dust.  And 
all  this  lashing  and  stoning  and  shivering  and  counting 
the  hours  that  eight  people  might  travel  in  two  days 
the  distance  an  express  train  would  cover  in  five  or 
six  hours. 

Burro  trains  loaded  with  the  precious  firewood  and 
tundra  moss  of  the  bare  plateau  trailed  past  us  steadily; 
toward  the  end  of  the  afternoon  a sand  storm  en- 
veloped us  like  a sudden  shower.  At  last  the  roofs  of 
a town  developed  in  the  distance,  and  a train  rolled 
across  the  horizon  like  toy  cars  on  a board.  The  world 
came  back  as  it  always  will  at  the  sound  of  a loco- 
motive bell,  and  the  German  lady  began  to  talk  of 
the  cities  she  had  seen,  of  Vienna  and  New  York  and 
Rio,  the  time  she  had  climbed  for  edelweiss;  and  so 
we  rattled  into  Oruro  presently,  through  streets  flaming 
with  the  red,  yellow,  and  green  Bolivian  flag. 

126 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


The  President  himself  had  taken  in  a closed  carriage 
the  same  drive  we  had  taken  in  a stage.  The  cavalry 
had  ridden  and  the  infantry  tramped  it,  and  they 
jammed  the  cafe  of  the  plaza  hotel,  spurs  clinking 
and  swords  dragging  on  the  floor,  drinking  each  other’s 
healths.  In  upstairs  rooms  chilly  diplomats  from 
countries  where  fires  are  known  huddled  round  tiny 
kerosene  heaters,  bundled  in  their  ulsters.  And  at 
the  contractor’s  headquarters,  excited  young  engineers, 
satirical  about  this  Latin  “flubdub,”  yet  proud  of  their 
part  in  it,  worked  over  invitations  and  arrangements 
for  the  banquet  the  next  night,  like  undergraduates 
preparing  for  a “prom.” 

There  were  great  doings,  in  short,  in  the  old  mud- 
colored  town,  even  though  the  Opposition’s  paper 
declared  that  since  its  exclusive  publication  of  the 
“contrato  monstruoso  which  the  Government  had  ac- 
cepted without  revision  from  the  New  York  bankers, 
the  level-headed  portion  of  the  illustrious  people  of 
Oruro  had  been  visibly  disillusioned  about  this  rail- 
road business.”  They  would  join  in  the  fiestas,  to  be 
sure,  as  spectators  and  workers,  but  they  “will  not, 
in  any  unknowing  or  servile  fashion,  act  like  so  many 
circus  acrobats,  lest  they  should  find  themselves 
blushing  to-morrow  when  the  mysteries  of  these  nego- 
tiations are  fully  revealed. 

“There  does  not  exist  in  Oruro  that  frenetic  en- 
thusiasm which  some  badly  informed  journalists 
suppose.  The  industrial  centre  in  which  we  live  has 
more  understanding  and  balance  than  those” — one 

.127 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


supposes  the  politicians  of  La  Paz — “who  boast  of 
wielding  the  wand  of  progress.” 

It  had  kept  things  stirred  up,  as  Opposition  papers 
in  Latin-American  towns  can  consistently  be  relied 
upon  to  do.  It  had  somehow  secured  a copy  of  the 
contract,  and  this  was  published  with  the  following 
ingenious  introduction : 

IMPORTANT  SPIRITUALISTIC  SESSION 

One  of  the  principal  editors  of  our  paper,  who  is  a good 
medium  and  a skilful  spiritualist,  has  put  himself  in  com- 
munication with  the  spirits  of  the  street  of  Las  Aldabas  in 
Lima,  and  by  this  means  has  obtained  the  famous  contract 
quicker  than  he  could  by  telegraph.  We  guarantee  the  fol- 
lowing to  be  an  exact  reproduction  of  what  the  spirits  said. 

The  Spirit  speaks:  This  introduction  doesn’t  interest  you, 
Mr.  Editor. 

Mr.  Editor:  No,  good  spirit.  Let’s  get  down  to  essentials. 
Dictate  to  me  the  contract,  as  offered  by  the  attorney  for  the 
American  contractors. 

The  Spirit:  Here  goes . 

Then  followed  the  contract — that  is  to  say,  part  of 
it,  for,  as  the  Opposition’s  paper  was  “setting  up” 
the  Spirit  communication,  an  incident  occurred  which 
“so  stupefied  us  with  surprise  that  we  were  left  unable 
to  decide  whether  to  give  vent  to  our  indignation  or 
to  meditate  sadly  on  a happening  which  these  serfs  of 
the  palace  would  doubtless  call  part  of  their  boasted 
progress,  but  which,”  etc.,  etc. 

It  seemed  that  “El  sub-director”  of  the  government 

128 


Cavalrymen  of  the  Bolivian  Army  on  their  way  from  La  Paz  to  Oruro. 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 

organ,  chagrined  at  learning  that  his  rival  was  about 
to  publish  the  document  which  “will  be  the  shroud  of 
the  Montes  administration,”  armed  himself  with  an 
unpaid  bill  which  some  partisan  had  turned  over  to 
him  for  the  purpose  and  attached  the  premises  at  the 
psychological  instant  of  going  to  press. 

A “villainous  attempt,  trustrated  by  producing  in- 
stanter  the  necessary  cash,  but  not  until  it  was  too 
late  to  attempt  to  print  more  than  half  the  contract. 
. . . The  rest  to-morrow,  our  distinguidos  y amables 
readers.  Meanwhile  be  confident  that  we  are  watch- 
ing these  destroyers  of  the  fatherland,  who  toy  with 
its  future  as  they  wouldn’t  trifle  with  even  their  own 
haciendas,  and  with  their  prefects,  police,  and  sub- 
sidized press  attempt  to  suppress  contracts  which 
hand  over  without  scruple  to  speculators  the  treasury 
of  Bolivia!” 

Except  for  this  faint,  jarring  note — and  there’s 
always  an  Opposition  paper — the  celebration  went 
merrily  on.  Even  the  Opposition’s  paper,  interested 
in  spite  of  itself  in  a glorious  Fourth,  “vehemently 
urged  that  the  municipal  carts  and  mules  in  the  Plaza 
Castro  de  Padilla,  be  transferred  to  some  appropriate 
stable-yard,  where  they  would  cease  to  detract  from 
the  beauty  and  culture  of  Oruro,”  and  that  “the 
wagon  for  aguas  sucias  be  painted  an  agreeable  color 
so  that  the  city’s  guests  might  not  be  made  ill  by 
looking  upon  it.” 

And  at  the  gala  performance  that  night  of  the 
famous  zarzuelas,  “Jugar  con  Fuego”  and  “El  Santo 

129 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


de  la  Isidore,”  although  the  orchestra  and  chorus  were 
unprepared — “and  our  dilettante  public  will  not  put 
up  with  indifferently  rendered  music,  particularly 
wrhen  they  are  familiar  writh  it,” — “there  was  not  a 
'but’  in  Mr.  Monte’s  tenor  singing,”  Mine.  Ruiz  scored 
a veritable  triumph  and  “the  simpdtica  Andriu  even 
more  than  with  her  artistic  skill,  enchanted  the  world 
with  her  plastic  curves  of  the  Cytherean  Venus.” 

The  next  morning,  at  about  the  time  the  Fourth  of 
July  chowder  parties  were  starting  down  the  bay  at 
home,  the  frosty  air  of  the  plaza  was  split  and  shivered 
with  bugle  calls  and  the  President,  the  Prefect,  and 
the  other  dignitaries  in  evening  clothes  issued  from  the 
low  Government  building  and  marched  bare-headed  and 
with  tremendous  dignity  around  the  plaza  to  the 
church.  While  mass  was  being  said  there,  and  the 
soldiers  in  the  hotel  were  drinking  salnds  to  each  other 
and  destruction  to  their  enemies,  the  young  engineers 
crowded  into  their  camp  cook-tent  on  the  windy 
pampa , a mile  or  so  from  town — where,  a century  or 
two  from  now,  a Union  Station  may  be — and  watching 
the  cook  bake  flapjacks  and  make  cocoa  of  condensed 
milk,  wondered  what  the  folks  were  doing  at  home. 

It  was  very  cold  out  there  on  the  pampa,  the  snow 
was  beginning  to  sift  down  from  the  mountains,  and 
Fourth  of  July  picnics  in  the  North  seemed  very 
pleasant  things.  Some  of  them  had  not  been  as  near 
to  civilization  as  this  in  months.  They  had  been  up  in 
the  mines,  or  surveying,  making  maps,  sleeping  in  tents 
with  the  thermometer  round  zero,  and  this  opening 

130 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


of  the  railroad,  getting  into  evening  clothes  again  and 
banqueting  the  President  was  something  of  an  event. 

The  company  had  prepared  a gold  medallion  in 
honor  of  the  day  for  the  President,  silver  ones  for  those 
in  top  hats,  and  bronze  ones  for  the  favored  populace. 
There  was  a silver  shovel  and  pick  and  a penholder  of 
gold  with  which  to  sign  the  contract.  From  the  tent 
in  which  this  was  to  be  done  streamed  the  Bolivian 
and  American  flags,  and  hung  on  it  were  banners  and 
paper-covered  hoops  bearing  such  mottoes  as  “Nihil 
sine  labore,”  and  cornucopias  from  which  showered 
the  Spanish  words  for  “liberal  culture,”  “railroads,” 
“treaties  of  peace,”  “progress,”  and  the  various  other 
things  which  the  Ins-paper  said  were,  and  the  Outs- 
paper  said  were  not,  brought  by  the  administration  of 
Excmo.  Sr.  Presidente  Ismael  Montes. 

The  wind  freshened  and  the  snow  was  whistling 
down  from  the  hills  when  the  procession  started  out 
from  town.  The  infantry  came  first,  with  a great  band 
of  sixty  pieces.  At  its  head  was  a squad  of  diminutive 
drummer-boys,  with  white  gaiters  and  stiff  little  cock- 
ades and  great  white  breast-straps  that  vaguely  re- 
called old  battle  pictures,  and  a strange  aegis  sort  of 
thing,  hung  with  little  bells,  jangling  splendidly.  The 
cavalry  came  after,  and  the  President,  in  his  carriage, 
last,  surrounded  by  his  lancers — white  men  all — in 
smart  hussar  uniforms,  their  scarlet  pennants  flapping 
like  confetti  against  the  snow. 

With  that  instinct  for  effect  which  is  born  in  all 
South  Americans  this  little  army  spread  out  into  a 

131 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


great  hollow  square — nearly  a quarter  of  a mile  across, 
it  seemed — the  infantry  walling  two  sides,  the  cavalry 
and  the  lancers  the  third,  with  the  snow-swept  space 
between;  the  drums  rolling  constantly  and  bugles 
shrilling  back  and  forth  across  the  wind. 

The  young  chief-engineer,  in  professional  disdain  of 
Latin  finery,  strode  up  and  down  in  sweater  and  put- 
tees, the  crowd  pushed,  and  just  what  happened  when 
the  President  turned  the  first  shovelful  of  earth  I 
cannot  be  sure,  because  a lancer  was  riding  his  horse 
back  and  forth  across  my  feet.  But  the  Archbishop’s 
golden  crazier  showed  above  the  crowd,  and  everybody 
cried  “Bravo!”  and  “Viva!”  and  presently  the  people 
fell  back  and  the  Archbishop  approached  the  tent, 
accompanied  by  a soldierly  looking,  well-built  young 
man.  “Viva  el  Presidente  de  la  Republica!”  said  a 
loud,  clear  voice,  and  “Viva  el  Presidente  de  la  Re- 
publica!” repeated  every  one — loudest  of  all  a man 
standing  up  in  the  seat  of  an  open  hack,  who,  so 
one  of  the  young  engineers  explained,  had  fought  the 
railroad  hardest  of  all  and  wanted  to  be  prefect  now. 

Then  the  contract  was  signed,  and  the  Archbishop 
consecrated  that,  too,  and  all  those  who  could  get  near 
enough  got  a medal  and  drank  the  health  of  Bolivia, 
the  railroad,  and  President  Montes  in  the  engineers’ 
champagne,  while  the  cholo  shovelmen,  wrapped  in 
their  ponchos,  huddled  aside,  stared  in  their  half- 
melancholy, apathetic  way. 

Then  everybody  trooped  back  to  town,  and  the 
President  reviewed  the  soldiers  from  a balcony  on  the 

132 


A FOURTH  OF  JULY  IN  BOLIVIA 


plaza,  each  band  halting  beneath  and  playing  its 
warriors  past,  then  falling  in  and  marching  on  out  of 
the  square.  Last  of  all,  very  slowly  on  their  travel- 
stained  horses,  came  the  buglers  of  the  guard,  shrilling 
out  the  national  hymn.  Something  in  its  wailing 
minor  chords,  in  the  shrill  abandon  which  the  thin 
mountain  air  helped  give  the  sound,  seemed  to  make 
it  the  very  voice  of  this  bleak  hermit-land,  set  in  chill 
isolation  above  our  heavier  clouds.  All  in  the  plaza 
uncovered,  even  the  Indians  took  off  their  queer  ear- 
flap  caps,  and  a quick  protest  of  “Sombrero!  Som- 
brero!” snatched  off  the  only  hat  that  I saw  for  an 
instant  forgot.  The  empty  sides  of  the  plaza  had 
filled  with  troops  which  had  already  passed  in  review, 
and  these  stood  still  until  the  air  was  played  through. 
Then  the  bands  struck  up,  and,  considerably  to  the 
gratification  of  the  young  engineers,  one  of  them  was 
smashing  out  the  “ Washington  Post”  as  it  marched 
away. 

It  was  a great  day  for  Bolivia,  a “ transcendental  ” 
one,  as  they  would  say.  And  it  was  a great  day  for 
the  young  Americans  who  had  come  away  uown  here 
to  do  the  work.  Long  after  the  President’s  banquet 
that  night  was  over  they  were  celebrating  the  Fourth, 
crowded  in  a melancholy,  frigid  bedroom  of  Oruro’s 
melancholy,  unheated  hotel,  and  the  poncho-clad 
natives,  outside  in  the  dark,  listened  and  wondered 
as  they  heard  them  roaring,  “Use  been  working  on  the 
railroad,”  and  reiterating,  with  tremendous  fervor,  that 
the  moon  shone  bright  o’er  their  old  Kentucky  home. 

133 


CHAPTER  IX 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 

A few  minutes  after  the  bandits  who  row  passengers 
ashore  from  the  steamer’s  anchorage  at  Valparaiso  had 
set  us  down  at  the  landing  stage,  I dropped  in  at  the 
bank  and  asked  a gentleman  there  what  might  be  the 
show  places  of  the  town.  He  opened  his  mouth  to 
speak,  but  was  interrupted  by  the  jingling  of  his  desk 
telephone.  Whirling  round  in  his  pivot  chair,  he  first 
chastised  in  English  the  switchboard  operator  who  had 
kept  him  waiting,  then  talked  about  nitrate  for  five 
minutes  with  the  Chilian  on  the  other  end  of  the  wire, 
left  a swift  British  benediction  with  the  switchboard 
boy,  then  replied: 

"There  are  none— Valparaiso  is  a place  to  work  and 
eat  and  sleep  in.” 

This  was  not  the  whole  truth  about  the  city  which — 
painfully  so  since  the  earthquake — bears  much  the 
same  relation  to  the  Southern  continent  that  San  Fran- 
cisco does  to  the  Northern,  but  it  did  seem  very  near 
it.  Its  harbor  full  of  ships  from  all  the  seven  seas,  the 
sun-shot  fog  lifting  slowly  from  them,  the  cluster  of 
misty  hills  up  and  down  which  its  houses  climb,  all  sug- 
gest our  city  by  the  Golden  Gate.  But  the  strident 

134 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


busyness  of  what,  at  first  sight,  seemed  almost  a British 
and  German  colony,  belonged  to  quite  another  place. 
Work  was,  indeed,  what  had  herded  all  these  Teuton, 
Italian,  English,  French,  and  Spanish  folk  together; 
their  main  thought — other  people’s  money. 

You  have  come,  let  us  say,  down  the  coast,  still 
somewhat  saturated  with  the  drowsy  sun-drenched 
air  of  the  Caribbean.  You  have  trekked  up  into  the 
interior  from  Mollendo  to  La  Paz  and  the  bleak  plateau 
country,  seen  the  suspended  lakes,  the  llama  trains, 
the  poncho-clad  natives,  the  crystalline  isolation  of 
that  part  of  the  world ; then  turned  toward  the  Pacific 
and  followed  the  railroad  down  the  long  twelve- 
thousand-foot  slope  to  Chile  and  the  port  of  Anto- 
fagasta. Directly  one  crosses  the  line  into  Chile  one 
feels  the  approaching  grip  of  a swifter,  busier  civiliza- 
tion— becomes  aware  that  the  railroad  is  one  of  those 
far-flung  antennae  of  the  keen  modern  world.  The 
train  pulls  up  at  a corrugated  iron  settlement  baking  in 
the  desert  sun;  low  barracks  sprawl  stiffly  in  the  heat 
shimmer,  there  is  a smoking  chimney,  many  little  tram- 
cars  loaded  with  chunks  of  what  looks  like  whitish 
mud.  Businesslike  men — blonde  Britons  in  riding 
breeches  and  puttees;  Germans;  Italians  with  black, 
delicate  beards  like  those  of  opera  barytones — converse 
tersely  through  the  car  windows  with  men  just  like 
them  who  are  riding  through;  as  the  train  starts, 
swing  on  to  their  ponies  and  canter  off  over  the 
pampa  again. 

This  is  the  land  of  the  nitrate  oficinas.  The  whitish 

135 


TIIE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

mud  is  what  the  great  war  between  Chile  and  Peru  was 
fought  about;  all  the  energy  of  Chile  is  absorbed  in  it 
and  will  be  until  the  fields  are  exhausted  or  some  near- 
sighted German  chemist,  many  thousands  of  miles 
away,  discovers  how  to  make  nitrate  out  of  air.  Then 
what  will  become  of  the  army  and  the  navy  and  the 
aristocracy  wThich  live  off  this  strange  wealth  spread 
out  like  so  much  free  gold  ? No  mining  is  as  easy  as 
this  mere  surface  scraping ; to  prepare  the  caliche , as  the 
crude  saltpetre  is  called,  separate  the  iodine,  and  turn 
the  bulk  of  the  remainder  into  fertilizer,  is  as  simple,  one 
might  almost  say,  as  making  coffee  or  boiling  eggs.  Over 
thirty  million  quintails — a Spanish  quintail  weighs 
102  pounds — are  exported  yearly.  Between  7,000,000 
and  8,000,000  quintails  go  to  England,  for  herself  and 
the  Continent:  5,000,000  to  France,  about  1,000,000  to 
Germany,  about  5,000,000  to  the  United  States.  The 
whole  industry  is  gathered  into  a trust  which  regulates 
the  production,  there  are  some  sixty  oficinas  which 
employ  some  19,000  men,  and  seven  seaports  depend 
for  their  existence  on  these  shipments.  The  capital 
invested  in  nitrates  and  the  railroads  to  transport  it 
is  about  $60,000,000,  and  always  remembering  the 
near-sighted  chemist,  the  life  of  the  industry,  even 
without  the  discovery  of  new  deposits,  ought  to  be  at 
least  twenty-five  years.  Many  Chilians  will  shrug 
their  shoulders  and  tell  you:  “ Forever.”  Others, 
more  enlightened,  even  though  they  consider  it  a 
will-o’-the-wTisp  which  the  country  has  been  chasing 
instead  of  beginning  at  the  bottom  and  developing 

136 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


itself  in  a sensible,  all-round  fashion,  as  sooner  or  later 
it  must — will  tell  you:  “It’s  like  a balance,  nitrates 
will  go  down,  agriculture  and  manufacturing  come  up.” 
And  pert  outsiders  throw  up  their  hands  and  say: 
“When  the  nitrates  go,  the  bottom  drops  out.  There’s 
nothing  else  here — and  there  you  are.”  It  is  interest- 
ing, whichever  way  you  look  at  it — this  hardy,  mili- 
tant nation,  cocky  master  of  the  West  Coast,  gulping 
down  its  easy  riches  like  a boy  eating  the  frosting 
off  his  cake. 

You  ride  down  into  the  strange  leprous  desert,  then, 
past  a volcano  or  two  lazily  smoking,  past  dried-up 
salt  or  borax  lakes  lying  like  so  much  snow;  into  the 
nitrate  country.  Past  these  corrugated  iron  barracks, 
smoking  nitrate  stills,  lines  of  what  might  be  tomb- 
stones trailing  across  the  bleached  landscape — the 
boundaries  between  claims.  Presently  Antofagasta, 
with  thirty  or  forty  ships  lying  in  the  roadstead,  wait- 
ing, as  they’re  always  waiting,  at  these  wharfless  ports. 
A rusty,  raw,  sprawling  town,  with  young  Englishmen 
who  play  polo  on  Sunday  morning,  and  streets  and 
natives  which  would  fit  into  Williamsburg  or  Jersey 
City  almost  as  well  as  Latin  America.  Touching  at 
Coquimbo,  a bit  farther  down  the  coast,  you  run,  per- 
haps, into  a Chilian  cruiser,  popping  busily  at  a float- 
ing target  towed  by  a naphtha  launch  back  and  forth 
across  the  bay. 

And  then  at  last  you  steam  into  Valparaiso  harbor — 
if  such  one  may  call  this  treacherous  roadstead,  which 
is  a mill-pond  when  the  wind  is  south,  and  rises  up 

137 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


when  the  “norther”  sweeps  into  it  and  sinks  ships 
where  they  lie — full  of  masts,  funnels,  put-putting 
launches  and  yelling  fleteros.  The  riveters  are  clanking 
away  at  a deep-sea  freighter,  standing  high  in  the  dry- 
dock;  a ten-thousand-ton  mail  boat  is  just  getting 
under  way  for  Buenos  Aires,  Rio,  and  the  Continent, 
touching  at  the  Falklands  for  wool;  from  the  sea-wall 
come  the  shrill  whistles  of  big  German  express  loco- 
motives, and  a moment  after  you  step  ashore  some 
business  man  like  this  one  tells  you  that  the  only 
things  to  do  in  Valparaiso  are  to  eat,  sleep,  and  work. 
You  have  crossed  the  Line.  This  is  the  hemisphere  of 
Cape  Town  and  Sydney  and  Melbourne  and  Buenos 
Aires — the  real  South  America. 

Valparaiso  has  about  140,000  people,  but  as  the 
principal  port  of  the  West  Coast,  and,  in  a way,  the 
“downtown”  for  the  capital  and  the  rest  of  Chile,  it 
seems  more  important  than  its  mere  population  would 
indicate.  Its  buildings  are  fairly  modern,  and  al- 
though the  newspapers  and  street  signs  are  in  Spanish, 
and  Spanish  is  the  language  generally  spoken,  it  has 
little  of  the  look  of  the  old  Spanish-American  town. 

Trolley  cars  clang  through  the  streets  and  out  to  the 
suburbs,  shop  windows  are  decorated  with  toy  rail- 
roads and  pasteboard  landscapes  like  our  department 
stores;  lithographs  of  political  candidates  are  pasted 
on  fences  and  walls.  Out  toward  Vina  del  Mar 
where  the  well-to-do  live  in  hedged-in  villas,  I saw  a 
real  estate  boomer’s  sign  on  a hill  newly  planted  with 
pine  and  eucalyptus  trees  — “Villa  Moderna”  he 

138 


Looking  past  the  statue  of  Admiral  Prat  toward  the  landing  stage  at  Val- 
paraiso. 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


called  his  addition,  just  as  he  would  have  called  it 
“Ozone  Heights”  or  “Shadycrest  ” in  the  North. 

Valparaiso  is  the  home  of  the  famous  “Mercurio” 
newspaper,  now  published  both  there  and  in  Santiago, 
and  one  of  the  institutions,  almost  one  of  the  tradi- 
tions of  Chile.  It  was  at  Valparaiso,  in  1891,  that 
soldiers  of  the  U.  S.  S.  Baltimore  on  shore  leave  got 
into  the  fight  with  Chilian  soldiers,  which  came  near 
resulting  in  a declaration  of  war. 

The  Germans  have  the  largest  colony,  the  Italians 
the  next,  and  there  are  many  Frenchmen;  but  there 
are  some  six  thousand  Englishmen  in  Valparaiso,  and 
in  a Latin-American  town  six  thousand  blond  and 
English-speaking  foreigners  are  very  noticeable.  Late 
of  a winter  afternoon  in  that  favorite  caf6  of  the 
Calle  Prat,  where  the  bankers  and  importers’  agents 
gather,  or  passing  solid  old  British  names  on  brazen 
door-plates,  and  pink -cheeked  clerks  poring  over 
ledgers  under  green  drop-lights,  or  in  the  library  of 
the  Albion  Club,  with  a florid  old  gentleman  in  the 
corner  reading  “Punch,”  Valparaiso  seems  indeed 
British.  One  cannot  go  far  without  crossing  the  trail 
of  some  Irishman  or  Briton  or  Yankee  of  the  hard 
old  days — every  chapter  of  Chilian  history  is  sprinkled 
with  names,  opening  on  the  past  like  tiny,  dusty  win- 
flows,  through  which  one  just  misses  being  able  to  see. 

Chile’s  Washington,  as  he  might  be  called,  was  an 
O’Higgins.  Pie  led  the  war  for  independence  in  the 
early  part  of  the  last  century  and  headed  the  new 
government  during  its  first  few  years.  El  Almirante 

139 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


O'Higgins  is  the  name  of  the  largest  battleship  in 
Chile’s  navy  to-day.  In  that  navy  are  the  torpedo 
gun-boats  Almirante  Condell,  Almirante  Lynch  and 
Almirante  Simpson — all  names  that  meant  something 
in  the  Chilian-Peruvian  war,  and  if  you  look  back 
over  the  story  of  that  struggle,  which  ruined  Peru  for 
the  time  and  left  Chile  master  as  she  is  to-day  of  the 
West  Coast,  you  will  find  plenty  like  them — Cox, 
Christie,  Edwrards,  Leighton,  Macpherson,  Rogers 
Smith,  Stephens,  Thomson,  Walker,  Warner,  Williams, 
Wilson  and  Wood. 

All  officers  these,  helping  to  direct  ships  with  such 
names  as  Blanco  Encalada,  Chacabuco,  and  Esmeralda. 
In  the  Alameda  is  a statue  to  William  Wheelwright,  of 
Newburyport,  Mass.,  who  founded  the  Pacific  Steam 
Navigation  Company — which  plies  between  Liverpool 
and  the  West  Coast — and  built  railroads  for  Chile. 
Here,  too,  is  a statue  to  Lord  Cochrane,  the  Scotchman 
who  commanded  Chile’s  fleet  in  the  war  with  Spain. 

The  navy  was  one  of  the  revelations  of  the  Chile- 
Peruvian  war,  and  the  Chilians  have  been  extremely 
proud  of  it  ever  since,  and  have  worked  hard  to  keep 
up  its  efficiency.  Chile’s  Annapolis  is  on  one  of  the 
hills  overlooking  Valparaiso — a modern  school,  with 
machine  shops,  guns  mounted  as  though  on  board 
ship,  intricate  models  of  all  the  ships  in  the  Chil- 
ian navy,  big  airy  class  rooms,  and  an  athletic  field. 
The  cadets  are  mostly  younger  than  our  Annapolis 
men,  but  judging  by  their  bathroom  I should  imagine 
that  they  are  put  through  a somewhat  similar  Spartan 

140 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


training.  This  bathroom  is  an  extremely  narrow 
passage,  with  showers  overhead  and  on  either  side. 
The  future  admirals,  so  I was  told,  are  marched 
through  slowly  in  single  file,  so  that  each  is  bound  to 
get  thoroughly  soaked  before  he  emerges  at  the  far- 
ther end. 

A young  Chilian  bank  clerk  took  me  through  the 
school — the  sort  of  boy  who,  at  home,  has  little  more 
specific  knowledge  of  the  navy  than  that  the  battle- 
ships look  extraordinarily  fine  anchored  in  the  North 
River.  This  youth  and  the  friend  he  brought  with  him 
examined  the  models  in  the  glass  cases  as  though  they 
were  naval  architects.  They  knew  what  the  ships  had 
cost,  their  speed  and  armament,  and  they  argued 
earnestly  about  this  and  that  nation’s  characteristic 
type,  and  what  had  been  learned  from  the  Russo- 
Japanese  war.  No  less  typical,  but  scarcely  as  pleas- 
ant, was  their  contempt  for  all  things  Peruvian — 
“and  we’ll  give  them  another  good  licking  one  of 
these  days,”  they  grinned,  “if  they  don’t  look  out. 
They’ve  got  to  get  over  the  idea  of  making  that  navy 
of  theirs  any  bigger.”  It  sometimes  seems  as  though 
Chilians  took  a sort  of  pride  in  this  kind  of  bragging, 
as  who  should  say,  “Bah!  A man  doesn’t  want  to  be 
too  soft  and  polite;  we’re  a hard,  plain  lot  dowm  here 
— just  mere  masters  of  the  West  Coast,  that’s  all.” 

One  of  the  great  advantages  of  life  in  Valparaiso  for 
such  youths  is  the  absence  of  a professional  fire  depart- 
ment. The  glorious  privilege  of  fighting  fires  is  ap- 
propriated by  the  elite,  who  organize  themselves  into 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

clubs,  with  much  the  same  social  functions  as  the 
Seventh  Regiment  and  Squadron  A in  New  York,  wear 
ponderous  helmets  and  march  in  procession  in  great 
style  whenever  they  get  a chance.  One  comes  upon 
these  bomberos  practising  in  the  evening,  on  the  Ave- 
nida,  for  instance,  in  store  clothes  and  absent-mindedly 
puffing  cigarettes,  getting  a stream  on  an  imaginary 
blaze.  In  any  emergency  they  perform  much  the 
same  duties  as  our  militia.  They  threw  up  barricades 
and  made  each  of  the  isolated  hills  on  which  the 
city  is  set  a separate  fort  during  the  Balmaceda  rev- 
olution, and  they  did  police  and  rescue  work  after  the 
late  earthquake. 

It  is  the  delightful  privilege  of  the  bombero  to  drop 
his  work  whenever  the  alarm  is  given,  dash  from  his 
office  to  the  blaze,  and  there  man  hose-lines,  smash 
windows,  chop  down  partitions,  and  indulge  to  the 
fullest  one  of  the  keenest  primordial  emotions  of  man. 
Inasmuch  as  buildings  are  seldom  more  than  two  or 
three  stories  in  height  and  built  of  masonry,  there  is 
comparatively  little  danger  of  a large  conflagration, 
and  the  average  of  one  fire  in  four  days  is  “just  about 
right,”  as  one  of  my  Valparaiso  acquaintances  ex- 
plained, “to  give  a man  exercise.”  Their  only  un- 
happiness, he  said,  was  that  there  were  about  fifteen 
hundred  firemen  in  town,  and  they  were  getting  so 
expert  that  what  one  could  call  a really  “good”  fire 
was  almost  unknown. 

If  Valparaiso  reminds  one  of  a British  colony  down- 
town, it  quite  seems  so  on  a fair  Sunday  morning  at 

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THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


the  country  club  out  beyond  Vina  del  Mar.  This  is  a 
race-course,  primarily,  but  the  exiles  have  zigzagged  a 
golf-course  across  it  and  laid  out  grounds  for  foot-ball 
and  cricket,  and  the  day  that  I was  there  all  of  these 
sports  were  going  on,  while  several  willowy  young 
girls  cantered  round  the  track  on  absurdly  tall  horses, 
and  their  friends  strolled  the  turf  and  looked  on. 
Green  hills  rose  about  us,  a screen  of  Lombardy  pop- 
lars shut  in  this  oasis,  the  air  was  sweet  with  the  smell 
of  grass,  and  the  spicy  breath  of  the  eucalyptus 
trees.  It  made  one  think  of  pictures  in  “The  Field,” 
of  Kipling  and  the  Native  Born,  anything  in  the  world, 
in  fact,  but  the  con  came  images  popularly  associated 
with  Chile. 

Two  little  girls  with  unmistakable  German  faces  and 
great  bushes  of  flaxen  hair  hanging  down  below  their 
shoulders  drove  by  us  once  in  a Shetland  pony  cart, 
and  as  we  played  golf  we  passed  a pale,  dark-eyed 
lady,  the  Chilian  wife  of  an  Englishman,  playing  with 
her  little  boy  and  girl  on  the  grass.  It  was  pretty  to 
hear  her  teaching  them:  “Lawndon  abreedge  iss  af ail- 
ing down,”  and  to  see  the  quaint,  formal  way  in  which 
they  joined  hands  and  circled  round  her,  chanting 
“R-r-eeng  aroun’  de  r-roosey!”  and  looking  about 
with  the  bashful  consciousness  of  children  speaking  a 
piece. 

It  was  the  ingenious  device  of  those  who  built  the 
Valparaiso  race-course  to  construct  upon  the  hillsides 
at  the  foot  of  which  it  lies,  in  addition  to  the  regular 
grand-stand,  a series  of  terraces  bearing  little  arbors  or 

143 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


bowers  overlooking  the  field,  like  the  boxes  in  a 
theatre.  These  vine-covered  boxes  were  all  empty 
when  I was  there,  the  races  being  at  Santiago,  but 
several  of  those  in  the  lower  tier  had  been  thrown 
together,  and  here  a club  luncheon  was  served. 

Now,  mere  food  is  not,  perhaps,  a wonderful  thing, 
but  if  you  should  fly  to  the  planet  Mars  and  the  first 
Martian  you  met  offered  you  a ham  sandwich,  that 
would  be  a 'wonderful  thing.  In  some  such  light 
this  luncheon  appeared  to  me  after  two  months  of 
almuerzos  in  adobe  tambos  and  provincial  hotels,  and  of 
the  inevitable  cazuela  soup — a stout  British  lunch- 
eon, cold  mutton  and  ham  and  beef,  cheese  and 
sardines,  and  a superlative  beefsteak  pie.  And  here, 
too,  were  the  fathers  and  sons  in  their  knicker- 
bockers and  Cardigan  jackets,  slim  young  girls  just 
in  from  their  ride,  talking  and  laughing  their  crisp 
English,  snuffing  up  the  fresh  air. 

And  it  was  one  of  those  droll  South  American  con- 
trasts that  with  the  bare-legged  eleven  playing  Rugby, 
and  the  office  men  saying,  “Don’t  know  how  we  could 
)ive  if  we  didn’t  get  out  here  once  a week,”  over  behind 
the  grand-stand — there  by  virtue  of  paying  an  admis- 
sion which  only  admitted  them  where  they  couldn’t  be 
seen,  yet  paid  the  expenses  of  the  club  luncheon,  and 
of  keeping  up  the  grounds  for  the  canny  Britons — were 
the  common  or  garden  Chilians.  Clerks  and  men  of 
the  street,  they  were — smoking  cigarettes,  whisking 
their  limber  canes,  talking  vehemently  and  gambling 
with  great  excitement  on  the  races  run  at  Santiago, 

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THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


four  hours’  express  journey  away — having  their  kind 
of  a day  in  the  country  and  their  kind  of  fun. 

When  you  are  set  down  on  the  landing-stage  at 
Valparaiso  one  of  the  first  things  that  strikes  your  eye 
is  a two-wheeled  dray-cart,  drawn  by  two  scrubby, 
sweating  horses,  on  the  back  of  one  of  which  the 
driver  rides,  lashing  both  with  a short  whip,  like  an 
artilleryman  galloping  into  action.  This  horse  is 
hitched  by  a trace  just  outside  the  shafts,  and  he 
is  trained  to  push  with  his  shoulder  when  the  cart  is 
turning  away  from  him,  and  to  swerve  off  and  pull  at 
right  angles  to  the  shaft  when  a turn  is  made  in  his 
direction.  He  is  as  clever  as  a bronco  and  hard  as 
nails — the  sort  of  animal  that  will  work  himself  into  a 
lather  for  you  from  dawn  till  dark,  and  if  you  should 
try,  unexpectedly,  to  pet  him  on  the  nose,  would 
probably  leap  over  the  wagon.  There  are  no  drivers 
nor  horses  like  these  in  Caracas  or  Bogota  or  Lima,  and 
there  is  a connotative  rasp  about  the  whole  outfit 
which  is  typical  of  the  difference  between  Chile  and  its 
northern  neighbors. 

It  is  a rugged,  raw  country,  all  mountains  and  sea- 
coast  except  the  long  central  valley,  and  it  stretches, 
a long  jagged  sliver,  from  the  south  hemisphere  equiv- 
alent of  the  latitude  of  Jamaica  to  the  equivalent  of 
that  of  Labrador.  The  Araucanian  Indians,  whose 
blood  is  mixed  with  that  of  a considerable  portion  of 
the  population,  were  a race  of  fighters — very  different 
stock  from  the  tame,  phlegmatic  Indians  of  Peru. 
Many  of  the  early  Chilian  settlers  came  from  the 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


northern  part  of  Spain.  All  this,  a rugged  climate 
and  an  environment  none  too  tender,  have  made  the 
Chilians  hardier  than  their  northern  neighbors,  and 
since  the  great  war  it  cannot  be  denied  that  they 
often  have  the  air  of  a man  spoiling  for  a fight. 
This  swarthy,  unhousebroken  fellow  on  the  horse 
is  the  roto — one  of  the  most  interesting  social  units 
in  Latin  America.  He  does  the  country’s  hard  man- 
ual work  and  will  keep  at  it  all  day  on  a bit  of 
bread  and  onion  and  a gulp  of  pisco.  There  are  no 
harder  workers  in  the  world  than  these  men,  so  their 
overseers  will  tell  you.  When  they  get  their  pay  they 
go  off  on  a drunk  until  the  money  is  gone.  An  English 
engineer  told  me  of  the  men  in  his  mine,  who  worked 
half-naked,  like  animals,  below  ground.  They  were 
paid  at  the  end  of  every  three  months.  He  tried  to 
get  them  to  put  their  money  in  the  bank,  to  save 
enough  so  that  some  day  they  might  have  a little 
capital  and  shift  to  better  work.  They  laughed  at 
him.  What  was  the  use  of  working  at  all,  they  said, 
unless  you  could  get  drunk  at  the  end? 

It  is  this  class,  doubtless,  which  accounts  for  a good 
part  of  that  river  of  raw  spirits  of  which  Chilian  sta- 
tistics give  four  gallons  to  each  inhabitant  per  year.  In 
his  recent  “History  of  South  America,”  Mr.  Akers, 
who  was  correspondent  of  the  “London  Times”  for 
many  years  in  these  parts,  states  that  in  1898,  Val- 
paraiso, with  its  140,000  inhabitants,  had  more  arrests 
for  drunkenness  than  London  itself  with  its  five 
million.  I saw  no  untoward  signs  of  drunkenness  in 

146 


THE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


Valparaiso  nor  anywhere  else  in  Chile,  but  an  enormous 
amount  of  alcohol  is  consumed — in  the  nitrate  fields 
it  is  a rather  general  custom  for  the  oficina  to  furnish 
its  white  men  with  all  they  want  to  drink,  free — and  in 
the  provinces  lawless  crimes  are  frequent  and  scarcely 
punished. 

To  hear  the  transplanted  Britons — intolerant  ob- 
servers, to  be  sure — one  would  think  that  committing 
homicide  was  an  industry  and  life  in  Chile  scarcely  more 
secure  than  it  has  been  at  times  in  certain  streets  of 
Chicago.  While  I was  in  Valparaiso  a man  of  the 
name  of  Du  Bois  had  been  arrested  charged  with  a 
series  of  peculiar  murders.  The  papers  wrere  crowded 
with  details,  photographs  of  the  prisoner  and  his 
alleged  accomplices,  even  cartoons  of  the  chief  of 
detectives,  surrounded  with  red-hot  irons  and  other 
instruments  of  persuasion.  The  murders  had  been 
committed  some  time  before,  and  three  men  had  al- 
ready been  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced  to  execu- 
tion. I mentioned  this  fact  to  an  English  acquaint- 
ance, as  a somewhat  sinister  commentary  on  Chilian 
justice. 

“Not  at  all,”  he  said  sweetly.  “They  can’t  make  a 
mistake,  you  know;  any  one  of  these  chaps  is  bound 
to  have  committed  a murder.” 

It  is  the  roto  who,  of  late  years,  has  just  begun  to 
sit  up  and  take  notice.  He  is  not  a fool  by  any  means, 
and  he  knows  enough  of  what  the  rest  of  the  world  is 
doing  to  feel  a vague  dissatisfaction.  It  is  he  who  has 
dug  out  of  the  nitrate  fields  all  the  wealth  which  has 

147 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


made  his  country  and  the  foreigners  rich.  It  was  he 
who  fought  the  battles  which  crushed  Peru  and  made 
Chile  master  of  the  West  Coast.  And  he  can  never  be 
an  officer;  he  can  never  command  a ship;  he  dies  as 
he  lives,  a beast  of  burden.  And  so  they  have  strikes 
in  Chile,  now,  quite  as  modern  as  ours  at  home.  A few 
years  ago  there  was  literal  war  in  the  streets  of  San- 
tiago because  the  Government  tried  to  raise  the  import 
tax  on  Argentine  beef;  shortly  before  that  a mob  of 
steamship  strikers  fairly  terrorized  Valparaiso  for  a 
few  hours,  and  with  interesting  discrimination — having 
the  same  grievance  against  both — burnt  the  offices  of 
the  Chilian  steamship  company  and  spared  those  occu- 
pied by  a British  steamship  company — there  being 
danger  of  foreign  intervention  there.  While  I was 
in  Santiago  the  printers’  and  lithographers’  strike, 
and  other  labor  troubles  of  the  obreros — the  me- 
chanic class  above  the  roto  which  has  its  labor 
unions  similar  to  ours — were  important  parts  of  each 
day’s  news. 

This  dawning  consciousness  of  power,  this  creeping 
of  industrial  problems  into  a society  which  was 
originally  aristocratic  and  patriarchal,  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  social  phenomena  of  Latin  America. 
The  thought  of  the  good-natured  Bolivian  Indian — 
who  will  carry  a trunk  two  miles  on  the  top  of  his  head 
for  ten  cents — going  on  strike,  or  the  subdued  cholo 
of  Peru,  or  shifty  mestizo  of  the  Caribbean  organiz- 
ing labor  unions,  seems  amusing  or  grotesque.  This 
roto,  however,  is  a different  sort  of  person.  He  is  not 

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fHE  OTHER  SAN  FRANCISCO 


merely  poor,  or  good-natured,  or  subdued — he  is  a 
scarred  fighter  who  has  survived  a hard  battle.  A 
man  who  will  work  all  day  for  a gulp  of  raw  spirits, 
fight  like  a Spartan,  endure  cold  and  fatigue  without 
whimpering,  rob  you  or  knife  you  without  a qualm, 
and  is  just  begininng  to  get  hold  of  trade-unionism, 
is  interesting.  If  one  were  to  devise  a coat-of-arms  for 
Valparaiso — one  had  almost  said  Chile — one  need  go  no 
farther  than  this  characteristic  sight  of  the  Valparaiso 
streets — the  two-wheeled  dray-cart,  the  wiry,  straining 
horses,  and  the  swarthy  driver  lashing  them  to  their 
work.  In  a way  they  express  the  spirit  of  that  raw 
city,  and  are  as  appropriate  to  Chile  as  the  llama  and 
palm  tree  to  the  seal  of  Peru. 


I3V 


CHAPTER  X 

SANTIAGO:  THE  METROPOLIS  OF  THE  ANDES 

Toward  dusk,  when  the  lights  are  beginning  to  appear 
in  the  shops  and  the  newsboys  are  calling  out  the  last 
damp  edition  of  “Las  Ultimas  Noticias,”  and  the  great 
snow-covered  wall  of  the  Andes  to  the  east  blazes 
in  the  afterglow,  the  young  men  of  Santiago  gather  in 
the  neighborhood  of  the  corner  of  Huerfanos  and 
Ahumada  streets  to  watch  the  young  ladies  go  by. 
They  are  dapper  and  very  confident  young  men,  com- 
bining in  their  demeanor  the  gallantry  of  their  Span- 
ish inheritance  with  a certain  bumptiousness  rather 
characteristically  Chilian.  They  stare  at  those  who 
pass — some  in  mantos,  some  in  French  dresses  with 
Paris  hats  and  “undulated”  hair — and  in  Spanish 
murmur,  half  audibly,  such  observations  as,  “I  like 
the  blonde  best,”  or  “Give  me  the  little  one.”  And 
as  they  still  retain  some  of  that  simplicity  which, 
in  the  interior,  causes  a stranger  to  be  watched  as 
though  he  were  a camel  or  a calliope — they  will  stare 
even  at  the  gringo,  comment  on  the  cut  of  his  clothes 
or  facetiously  compare  his  blunt  walking-boots  with 
their  long,  thin  ones.  They  are  rather  irritating 
sometimes,  these  Huerfanos-corner  young  men,  es- 

150 


SANTIAGO 


pecially  the  young  officers  in  their  smart  German  uni- 
forms, and  one  dreams  of  home  and  a Broadway 
policeman  marching  down  upon  them  leisurely  with  a 
night-stick  and  fanning  them  away. 

But  the  young  women  do  not  mind  it  at  all ; indeed, 
if  they  did  not  rather  like  it  they  probably  would  not 
so  arrange  their  shopping  that,  two  by  two,  from  the 
Plaza  down  past  the  Hotel  Oddo,  round  the  corner  and 
back  again,  they  must  so  often  pass  this  way.  And 
you  will  not  make  yourself  at  all  popular  by  sympathiz- 
ing, for  they  would  only  laugh  and  say:  “Oh,  they’re 
all  right.  That’s  only  their  way  of  beginning.  They’re 
quite  sensible  and  nice  when  you  come  to  know  them.” 
There  are  ways  and  ways,  and  in  South  America  a girl 
who  may  not  receive  a formal  call  from  a man  without 
having  her  mother  and  half  the  family  in  the  room  at 
the  same  time  may  blandly  listen  to  repartee  which 
would  make  our  maidens  gasp  for  breath.  One  night 
at  the  opera  in  Santiago  a somewhat  distinguished  per- 
sonage looked  in  for  a moment  at  the  box  where  I 
happened  to  be.  Had  you  called  upon  him  that  after- 
noon he  would  have  expected  you  to  come  in  top-hat 
and  frock-coat  and  discuss  affairs  of  state  with  punc- 
tilious dignity,  yet  the  first  casual  remark  this  middle- 
aged  statesman  made  after  bowing  to  the  young  ladies 
in  the  party  was  to  tell  the  older  he  couldn’t  wait  any 
longer,  and  she  would  have  to  marry  him  at  once. 
“Or” — and  he  nodded  toward  the  other  sister — “be 
my  sister-in-law.”  The  young  girl  smiled  lazily  and 
continued  fanning  herself.  A moment  later,  when  he 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

was  reminded  of  the  man  who  was  about  to  visit  Japan 
and,  on  being  asked  if  he  intended  to  take  his  wife  with 
him,  replied,  “Do  you  carry  a sandwich  in  your  pocket 
when  you  go  to  the  Lord  Mayor’s  banquet?”  she  still 
smiled  and  fanned  lazily  on. 

They  are  sometimes  very  beautiful,  these  Chilian 
women,  with  the  same  pale  oval  faces  and  velvety  dark 
eyes  of  their  cousins  of  Lima,  but,  as  a rule,  with  more 
vigor  and  vitality.  Something  in  their  inheritance, 
perhaps,  more  likely,  the  colder  climate  seems  to  have 
cooled  a little  the  vivacity  which  comes  out  in  the 
tropic  north;  indeed,  the  beauties  of  which  they  are 
proudest  are  tall,  slow-moving  creatures,  vigorously 
shaped,  but  marble-pale  and  a little  melancholy.  At 
this  time  of  day,  when  the  carriages  are  rolling 
about  to  diplomatic  teas  or  waiting  outside  some  shop 
which  has  received  a consignment  of  dress  goods  by 
the  last  steamer,  you  see  them  in  European  clothes. 
The  Chilians  will  tell  you  that,  as  July  is  mid-winter 
with  them,  they  get  Paris  styles  six  months  before  we 
do  in  the  States;  by  the  same  token,  English-speaking 
exiles  tell  you  that  the  Chilians  are  always,  at  least 
six  months  late.  Which  are  right  it  is  not  for  a mere 
male  to  say — the  result  is  very  satisfactory,  at  any 
rate.  Most  women — and  in  the  morning  even  the 
Europeanized  ones — wear  the  manto,  that  graceful 
euphemism  which  shields  the  poor  and  disarms  the 
vain,  hides  bad  taste  and  clumsy  waists,  and,  wrapped 
round  the  head  and  nipped  in  in  some  marvellous 
fashion  at  the  nape  of  the  neck,  envelops  all  femininity 

152 


SANTIAGO 


in  gracefulness  and  mystery.  Some  of  these  mantos 
are  of  the  sheerest  cashmere,  and  their  beneficent  office 
is  vividly  revealed  once  in  a while  when  the  drooping, 
slender  mask  comes  between  one’s  self  and  the  light. 

It  is  at  dusk,  particularly  if  the  band  is  playing,  or 
if  it  is  Sunday,  that  the  promenade  begins  round  the 
Plaza,  a block  away  from  Huerfanos  and  Ahumada — 
a row  of  spectators  on  the  inside  benches,  on  the  out- 
side young  idlers  and  officers  two  or  three  deep;  be- 
tween two  shuffling  concentric  circles,  in  one  of  which 
are  the  wicked  and  predatory  men,  in  the  other,  the 
shrinking  senoritas,  two  by  two,  or  hanging  on  the  arm 
of  a protector.  Every  man  who  can  sport  a top-hat 
and  a pair  of  saffron  gloves,  if  it  is  Sunday,  all  of  the 
women,  except  the  very  austere  ones,  gather  here  and 
circle  round  in  that  armed  neutrality  of  the  sexes  which 
is  the  tradition  of  their  blood. 

At  this  hour,  when  the  unearthly  light  from  the 
Andes,  which  here  climb  up  to  Aconcagua’s  twenty- 
four  thousand  feet,  has  not  yet  quite  faded  away  to 
darkness  and  the  city  lamps;  when  the  newsboys  are 
calling  the  papers,  and  the  news  from  the  great  world 
to  the  other  side  of  the  earth  is  still  news;  when  the 
men  are  flocking  into  the  Union  Club  and  the  Brazil 
coffee-house  and  the  sidewalks  are  full  of  shoppers  and 
the  cool  mountain  air  smells  of  violets  and  vague  per- 
fumes and  the  scent  of  roasting  coffee,  this  Huerfanos 
corner  is  a very  pleasant  place.  Within  a stone’s 
throw,  one  might  say,  is  all  of  Chile;  those  who  rule 
and  those  who  own;  the  representatives  of  foreign 

153 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


governments,  the  newspapers,  the  clubs,  theatre,  opera. 
You  can  look  up  one  street  to  Santa  Lucia,  that  hang- 
ing garden  of  which  the  city  is  so  proud,  and  up  another 
to  the  long  Alameda,  with  its  fountains  and  statues  and 
trees  and  trophies  of  the  war.  In  a few  hours,  a block 
or  two  away,  the  carriages  will  be  clattering  up  for 
“II  Trovatore”  or  “La  Boheme.”  It  is  a cheerful 
little  corner,  the  heart  of  this  raw,  bumptious,  unlovely 
country — the  flower  whose  roots  lie  in  the  baking 
nitrate  deserts,  hundreds  of  miles  northward,  from 
which  four-fifths  of  the  nation’s  revenues  come. 

Santiago  has  been  called  the  City  of  the  Hundred 
Families,  not  because  an  acute  social  censor  might  not 
double  the  number  or  cut  that  number  in  two,  but 
because  government  in  Chile  is  even  more  a family 
affair,  perhaps,  than  in  any  other  country  of  South 
America,  and  because  Santiago  is  the  capital.  After 
its  separation  from  Spain  and  preceding  the  great  war 
with  Peru,  there  were  four  presidential  dynasties,  so 
to  speak,  of  ten  years  each,  each  president  selecting 
his  successor  and  seeing  him  put  in  office,  regularly 
and  in  good  order.  Forty  years  of  orderly  government 
was  rather  a wonderful  thing  for  South  America  and 
during  it  the  rugged  little  country  made  money  and 
built  its  navy  and  got  ready  to  win  the  struggle  with 
Peru.  Since  then,  as  the  spread  of  commercialism  and 
modern  practicality  has  tended  to  weaken  the  sway  of 
the  old  landed  aristocracy,  there  has  been  a more  or 
less  open  opposition  between  the  Families — that  is  to 
say,  the  Senate  and  Chamber  of  Deputies,  and  the 

154 


SANTIAGO 


executive  which  consists  of  the  President  and  his 
ministers.  Chilian  government  is  of  the  extreme  par- 
liamentary pattern,  and  the  families  have  rarely  hesi- 
tated to  compel  a dissolution  of  the  President’s  cabinet 
whenever  his  and  their  policies  did  not  agree.  In 
1889,  in  President  Balmaceda,  a man  of  culture  and  of 
an  ambition  for  his  country  perhaps  ahead  of  his  time, 
they  found  one  who  would  not  yield  to  them.  Revolu- 
tion followed,  many  lives  were  wasted,  and  millions  of 
dollars’  worth  of  property  destroyed,  and  the  Balma- 
cedists  lost.  Balmaceda,  who  was  a proud  and  very 
sensitive  man,  committed  suicide;  but  there  is  a Balma- 
cedist  party  in  Chilian  politics  to-day.  And  although 
Santiago  is  a city  of  a Few  Families  still,  in  a way,  one 
of  the  very  live  questions  in  the  Chile  of  to-day — with  its 
foreign  promoters,  its  labor-unions,  night-schools,  incip- 
ient socialism,  and  industrial  strikes — is  how  long  the 
country  will  be  ruled  by  an  oligarchy  of  jealous  fami- 
lies, and  when  these  scattered  units  will  be  absorbed 
into  political  parties,  each  with  its  well-defined  policy, 
which,  when  it  gets  in  power,  it  can  hope  to  carry  out. 
Intimate  discussion  of  such  questions  I must  leave  to 
the  erudite  gentlemen  who  are  at  this  instant  writing 
constitutional  histories  of  South  America,  and  having 
thus  hinted  at  the  general  social  and  material  outlines 
of  Santiago,  return  to  the  more  immediate  subject  of 
these  chapters,  and  what  Mr.  Barrett  Wendell  would 
call  the  glittering  phantasmagoria  of  the  outside  world. 

Santiago  has  about  four  hundred  thousand  people, 
or  about  one-tenth  of  the  population  of  Chile.  It  lies 

155 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


in  the  wide  central  valley  of  this  long  sliver  of  a coun- 
try, some  two  thousand  feet  climb  from  the  coast  and 
Valparaiso,  with  the  Andes  hanging  like  a beautiful 
drop-curtain  at  the  eastern  end  of  every  street.  It  has 
many  newspapers,  the  best  quite  as  good  as  those  of 
cities  of  similar  size  at  home,  a large  university,  many 
academies  and  schools,  parks,  and  an  art  museum. 
Its  citizens  ride  in  trolley-cars,  go  to  the  theatre  and 
opera  and  horse-races,  and  talk  to  one  another  and 
Valparaiso  over  the  telephone.  There  is  at  least  one 
hotel  well-kept  and  comfortable,  and  equal  to  what 
one  would  find  in  an  average  city  of  similar  size  in 
Europe.  In  short,  it  is  a city,  with  a city’s  material 
obviousnesses.  Without  gaping  at  these  in  detail,  it  is 
perhaps  sufficient  to  say  that,  if  the  journey  down  the 
West  Coast  and  across  to  Argentina  were  represented 
by  a sort  of  isothermal  line,  climbing  up  and  down  the 
various  latitudes  of  modernity,  somewhat  after  the 
manner  of  those  charts  with  which  nurses  record  the 
temperatures  of  fever  patients,  it  would  swing  upward 
in  a fairly  consistent  curve  from  the  comic-opera 
Caribbean,  through  Peru  and  Lima,  with  its  mixture  of 
antiquity  and  modern  bricabracqueria , through  Chile, 
hungrily  scraping  easy  riches  from  the  nitrate  fields, 
to  Buenos  Aires,  and  about  midway  on  this  line  you 
could  mark  a dot  for  the  city  of  Santiago. 

What  manner  of  life  is  flowing  by  here,  thirty-three 
degrees  below  the  line,  in  this  ninetieth  year  of  Chilian 
independence?  I know  of  no  better  way  to  glimpse, 
at  least,  a cross-section  of  it  than  by  glancing  through 

156 


Nitrate  vats  at  an  “oficina”  in  the  north  of  Chile. 

From  nitrates  comes  most  of  Chile’s  income. 


The  railroad  station  at  Santiago. 

These  horse-cars  have  long  since  been  replaced  with  electric  trolleys. 


SANTIAGO 


these  damp,  newly  made  mirrors  of  the  passing  stream, 
otherwise  known  as  afternoon  papers.  There  are  a 
great  many  of  them  here  in  Santiago,  and  some  very 
good  ones,  and  the  North  American,  unaccustomed  to 
cities  which  are  their  countries  in  a sense  that  none  of 
our  separate  towns  begins  to  be,  wonders  who  can 
read  and  support  all  of  them.  There  is  “El  Mercurio,” 
which  everybody  has  heard  of,  and  its  afternoon  edi- 
tion, “Las  Ultimas  Noticias”;  “La  Lei,”  “El  Ferro- 
carril,”  “El  Chileno,”  “La  Patria,”  “El  Imparcial,” 
“La  Reforma,”  “El  Porvenir,”  “El  Diario  Popular,” 
“El  Diario  Ilustrado”;  there  may  be  others,  but 
these,  at  least,  I gathered  up  one  evening  from  the*  old 
cholo  newswoman  who  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  post- 
office.  So,  suppose  one  surprises  the  first  newsboy  who 
approaches  Huerfanos  corner  by  buying  out  half  his 
stock,  and  then  crossing  the  street  to  the  Brazilian 
coffee-house,  where  men  gather  at  this  hour,  just  as 
they  do  after  the  offices  close  in  the  cafes  at  home,  and 
where  for  a few  cents  you  can  get  a plate  of  little 
biscuits,  and  coffee,  that  somehow  never  tastes  nor 
smells  quite  the  same  the  other  side  of  the  tropics,  and 
cast  an  eye  over  the  news.  Here,  first  thing,  on  the 
front  page  of  “Las  Ultimas  Noticias,”  in  scare  type 
that  cannot  be  escaped,  is  an 

AVISO  AL  PUBLICO!! 

The  Printing,  Lithographing  and  Binding  Establishments  of 
Santiago  have  been  obliged  to  close  their  doors,  owing  to  the  ex- 
cessive pretensions  of  their  employees  following  an  increase  in  the 
hours  of  work  which  was  unanimously  adopted  by  the  proprietois. 

157 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


Close  by,  the  Juventud  Conservadora  publicly  regrets, 
in  red  ink,  that  because  of  the  strike  and  the  impos- 
sibility of  having  invitations  printed,  its  banquet  must 
be  postponed  for  a week.  Farther  over  the  employers 
print  a long  statement,  phrased  in  the  cold  and  lucid 
words  which  employers  are  wont  to  use,  amid  which 
stares  our  own  word  “ local”  alongside  “Federation 
Grafica  Arturo  Prat,  485.”  Here,  then,  in  our  City  of 
Families,  in  a country  founded  by  Spain  and  saturated 
with  patriarchal  traditions,  comes  the  trade-union  and 
strikes,  or  huelgas,  as  they  would  say.  The  young 
British  bank-clerk  at  the  next  table  will  tell  you  that 
a year  or  two  ago  these  very  streets  were  literal  battle- 
grounds for  a day  or  two  because  the  government  tried 
to  raise  the  import  tax  on  Argentine  beef.  There  were 
only  a few  soldiers  at  the  barracks  when  the  mob  rose, 
“and  if,”  says  he,  “we  hadn’t  got  together  and  kept 
them  from  breaking  in  and  getting  the  guns,  nobody 
knows  what  might  have  happened.  The  soldiers  came, 
though.  You  could  hear  ’em  pop-pop-popping  all 
night  in  the  streets.  They  shot  three  hundred  that 
one  night!  The  mob  tried  to  break  into  the  ‘Mcr- 
curio’  building,  and  the  men  inside  fired  one  volley 
out  of  the  windows  and  killed  seven.” 

Here,  farther  on,  are  echoes  of  that  restless,  get-rich- 
quick  commercialism  of  present-day  Chile — columns  of 
advertisements  of  banks,  with  British,  German,  Span- 
ish names;  of  nitrate  companies  and  promotion 
schemes  that  remind  one  of  mining  advertisements  in 
our  Western  papers.  Yet  with  it  all,  one  gets  a feeling 

158 


SANTIAGO 


of  being  set  back  in  the  fifties  or  sixties,  of  seeing  some- 
thing that  is  perhaps  a partial  duplication  of  what  we  in 
North  America  were  a few  generations  ago.  In  spirit 
the  country  is  still,  to  a great  extent,  colonial ; things  still 
date  to  and  from  mail-day;  there  is  a quaint  antique 
solemnity  in  the  advertisements  of  steamship  sailings: 
“On  such  and  such  a date  the  Pacific  Steam  Naviga- 
tion Company’s  steamship  Sorata,  7,000  tons  (Captain 
Hobson),  carrying  mails  for  Europe,  will  sail,  touching 
at  Coronal  or  Lota,  Punta  Arenas,  Montevideo,  Santos, 
Rio  de  Janeiro,  etc.,  to  Liverpool.”  Some  of  the  ships 
go  straight  over  to  Australia,  where  much  of  Chile’s 
coal  comes  from;  some  to  New  Zealand,  by  way  of 
Cape  Town;  and  many  stop  at  the  Falklands,  eastward 
bound,  to  take  on  cargoes  of  wool. 

In  foreign  news  I suppose  we  are  less  interested,  yet 
here  are  two  or  three  pages  of  cable  despatches  in  “El 
Mercurio” — twice  as  much,  so  that  most  hopeful  of 
Pan- Americans,  Mr.  Charles  Pepper,  avers  in  his  book 
on  the  West  Coast,  as  is  printed  by  any  North  American 
paper  in  a city  of  similar  size.  As  for  commercial  and 

other  exiles — here  are  the  Alliance  Francaise  and  the 

■> 

Deutscher  Verein  announcing  approaching  festivities; 
the  English  Club,  “by  virtue  of  the  power  vested  in 
them  at  the  General  Meeting  of  the  Provisional  Com- 
mittee, have  decided  that,”  etc.,  etc.  Vida  Social, 
under  which  Latin-American  editors  have  a quaint 
habit  of  printing  obituaries  and  notices  of  funerals, 
here  includes  a wedding,  a baile  or  two;  the  banquet  of 
the  Colombians,  last  evening,  in  honor  of  the  anni- 

159 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


versary  of  their  independence — caviar  glace,  creme  reine 
Margot,  filet  de  Corbine  a la  Cancale  (the  corbina  is  a fish 
much  esteemed  on  the  West  Coast),  zephyrs  de  foies  gras 
en  bellevue,  Perdreaux  a la  bohemienne,  Haut  Sauteme, 
1890,  Chateau  de  Bouscaut,  ’80,  etc.,  etc.;  a dinner  for 
poor  children  and  their  mothers — another  echo  of 
Chile’s  growing  social  consciousness — given  by  certain 
distinguidas  senoras  y senoritas.  On  the  front  page  of 
“El  Diario  Ilustrado”  are  their  photographs,  the  dis- 
tinguished matrons  and  misses,  and  the  dusky  little 
cholo  children  looking  over  their  soup-bowds  out  of  dark, 
sad  eyes. 

The  muck-rake  is  still  but  mildly  wielded  in  these 
paternal  countries,  yet  at  least  in  the  report  of  yester- 
day’s session  of  the  congress,  one  finds  Deputy  Gutier- 
rez attacking  the  government’s  management  of  the 
state  railroad,  and  asserting  that  on  a certain  division 
out  of  three  hundred  and  thirty-seven  locomotives 
there  were  seventy-four  distinct  types!  The  editor 
himself  is  constrained  to  admit  that  the  Electric  Trac- 
tion Company  is  giving  abominable  service.  And  from 
Antofagasta,  up  in  the  nitrate  country,  a correspond- 
ent complains  that  murders  and  hold-ups  are  frequent 
and  that  the  police  are  becoming  more  indifferent 
every  day. 

Rates  of  exchange,  activity  of  the  stock-market, 
movements  of  Argentine  beef — at  the  opera  last  night 
“La  Tosca.”  “In  spite  of  the  bitter  attacks  on  Vic- 
torien  Sardou,”  observes  the  reviewer,  “by  the  more 
enlightened  critics,  this  old  man  of  the  theatre  survives, 

160 


SANTIAGO 


undaunted,  and  his  dramas  are  presented  all  over  the 
world.  The  unfortunate  thing  is  that  a great  many 
who  have  not  the  good  taste  to  rise  superior  to  merely 
popular  clamor — Puccini,  Mascagni,  and  others — are 
led  to  take  their  librettos  from  the  plays  of  Sardou. 
And  the  result  is,  because  of  the  false  theatrical- 
ism.  . . .” 

As  for  the  out-of-doors,  there  is  football;  a fond 
correspondent,  writing  in  the  old  Latin-American  or 
Caribbean  manner,  explains,  under  the  title,  “Lite- 
ratura  y Sport,”  and  with  examples  of  the  fresh-air 
regimen  practised  by  Edmund  Harcourt,  Jacques 
Richepin,  Henry  Bataille,  and  Marcel  Prevost,  how, 
of  all  those  who  need  physical  exercise,  literary  men 
need  it  most,  "in  order  to  compensate,  by  a propor- 
tionate amount  of  bodily  waste,  the  mental  combustion 
caused  by  the  profession  of  literature”;  and  here  are 
the  entries  and  weights,  in  kilos,  of  course,  for  the 
races  to-morrow — Espartana,  Miss  Polly,  Makaroff, 
King  of  Hearts,  Pierre-qui-rire,  Nutmeg,  Guerrillero, 
and  columns  of  racing  gossip  in  Spanish  signed  “Sport- 
ing Boy.” 

Of  these  newspapers  “El  Mercurio”  is  the  most 
widely  read,  and  it  has  long  been  one  of  the  show 
things  of  Chile.  It  was  founded  in  Valparaiso  in  1827 
and  in  Santiago  in  1900,  and  the  afternoon  edition, 
“Las  Ultimas  Noticias”  or  “The  Latest  News” — was 
started  in  1904.  The  two  papers  are  published  simul- 
taneously, the  news  columns  somewhat  different,  the 
editorials  the  same.  “El  Mercurio,”  like  its  larger 

161 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

rival,  “La  Prensa,”  of  Buenos  Aires,  is  the  pet  child 
of  a wealthy  family,  which  spares  no  expense  not  only 
to  keep  abreast  of  the  times,  but  to  give  its  whole 
establishment  something*  of  the  dignity  of  a national 
institution.  The  Valparaiso  editorial  offices  are  more 
like  a club  than  an  ordinary  North  American  news- 
paper office,  the  file-room  is  a sort  of  Gothic  chapel, 
and  the  mighty  redactor  and  his  assistant  sit  in  carved 
oaken  chairs  like  a cabinet  minister  and  his  secretary. 
The  Santiago  building  is  very  much  after  the  manner 
of  the  “New  York  Herald”  building  in  New  York, 
only  rather  more  ambitious.  It  has  an  office  where 
the  public  may  consult  files;  a grill-room,  in  which 
tea  is  served  free  to  reporters,  and  other  food  at  a 
nominal  price,  and  there  are  semi-public  lecture  and 
concert  rooms.  “El  Mercurio”  also  publishes  an 
illustrated  wreekly,  “Zigzag,”  which  circulates  all  over 
southern  South  America,  and  occupies  a position 
about  midway  between  such  illustrated  supplements 
as  are  issued  with  our  Saturday  “Globe”  and  “Mail 
and  Express,”  and  such  a paper  as  “Collier’s.”  Here 
you  will  always  find  photographs  of  the  baile  or  wed- 
ding or  dinner  of  the  week — for  South  Americans 
take  an  insatiable  delight  in  seeing  pictures  of  their 
social  doings  in  the  papers — gossip  of  the  races  and 
theatres,  poems,  translations,  and  short  stories  after 
the  fashion  of  French  or  Italian  weeklies,  scraps  of  the 
world’s  news,  ranging  from  an  account  of  the  latest 
nihilistic  attack  or  air-ship  flight  to  photographs  of 
English  musical  comedy  beauties  or  of  some  member 

162 


SANTIAGO 


of  our  pagan  aristocracy  with  a prize  bull-terrier  in 
her  lap.  “Zigzag”  has  a three-color  cover,  and  a 
North  American  superintendent  to  look  after  its  press- 
work.  Sometimes  it  is  quite  grown  up,  as,  for  instance, 
in  a series  of  cartoons  published  last  summer  depicting 
the  adventures  of  a German  sociologist  come*  to  study 
the  barbarous  phenomena  of  Chile.  The  misadven- 
tures of  this  gentleman  and  his  dachshund,  and  his 
droll  misinterpretation  of  the  humors  of  a Chilian  po- 
litical campaign,  were  presented  with  much  the  self- 
sufficient  good-humor  that  “Punch”  might  tell  of  the 
adventures  of  a Frenchman  in  London.  At  other 
times  it  becomes  droll  and  almost  Caribbean,  as  in  a 
number  I recently  saw,  in  which  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Frank  Brown’s  circus  in  Santiago  was  chronicled,  and 
it  was  solemnly  explained  that  the  Chilian’s  partiality 
to  elephants  was  due  to  something  mighty  and  martial 
in  the  national  temperament  to  which  these  vast 
pachyderms  specially  appealed. 

There  were  many  things  for  “El  Mercurio”  to  be 
proud  of,  but  that  which  they  pointed  out  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm,  perhaps,  and  which  was  interest- 
ing because  it  suggested  so  much  that  didn’t  exist  in 
the  tropical  neighborhoods  to  the  north,  was  a sign  on 
a door  that  read  “ Vida  al  aire  libre.”  It  was  the  head- 
quarters of  a brand-new  department,  and  of  the  gentle- 
man who  signed  himself  “Sporting  Boy,”  and  wrote 
about  life  out  of  doors.  Life  out  of  doors  in  the  tropics 
is  a serious  thing,  and  not  always  synonymous  with 
sport ; and,  although  the  English-speaking  folk  keep  up 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


their  tennis  and  sometimes  their  polo  wherever  they 
are,  and  you  will  find  South  American  boys  playing 
football  in  almost  every  town  of  any  size,  there  is  some- 
thing strange  and  vaguely  pathetic  about  such  exotic 
sport,  separated  from  the  cool  air  and  fresh  turf  with 
which  it  seems  to  belong.  Here  in  Chile,  however,  the 
temperate  zone  has  come  again : a workable  atmosphere 
and  the  blessed  green  grass,  and  with  it,  too,  naturally, 
and  with  all  these  northern  exiles  and  Saxons  native- 
born,  the  northern  love  for  sport.  Almost  every  day 
Mr.  Sporting  Boy  discoursed  learnedly  on  “El  turf 
f ranees,  its  development  and  progress,”  the  “Progreso 
del  turf  Chileho,”  gave  “a  last  word  about  el  match 
intercity  ” or  printed  a letter  from  some  “distinguido  y 
antiguo  footballista.” 

“Senor  Sporting  Boy,  Mi  estimado  amigo,”  the  letter 
would  begin.  “That  which  is  past  is  past.  We  have 
suffered,  in  truth,  a shameful  defeat;  yet  what  we  are 
to  blame  for  we  ought  perhaps  to  accept  silently. 
There  are,  however,  undoubtedly  certain  things  which 
might  well  be  brought  to  the  attention  of  the  honorable 
directorate  of  the  Association  de  Football  de  San- 
tiago.” What  should  have  been,  it  seems,  a great 
intercity  match  “became  merely  a mere  chance  for  the 
portehos  (or  ‘people  of  the  gate,’  as  the  Valparaisans 
are  called)  to  give  us  on  our  own  grounds  a proof  of 
their  superior  discipline  and  organization.”  The  San- 
tiago team  had  been  well  trained.  The  selection  of 
players  made  by  its  captain,  Don  Guillermo  del  Canto, 
was  magnificent.  The  public  were  confident.  The 

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great  day  dawned  propitiously.  But  at  the  last  mo- 
ment it  appeared  that  one  player  was  missing ! The  pub- 
lic protested,  the  captain  searched.  The  portehos — em- 
barrassing thought — “observed  this  lack  of  discipline. 
They  had  preferred  to  leave  behind  such  good  players 
as  Morrison  and  Mackenzie  merely  because  they  had 
missed  one  day’s  practice  at  Vina  del  Mar!  The  game 
began,  but  what  had  happened?  Why  were  Voiles, 
Rogers,  Hamel,  etc.,  who,  two  days  before,  had  spoken 
gayly  of  the  intercity  as  of  a coming  victory,  not  now 
the  same?  The  cause  seemed  inexplicable.  It  was 
this.  The  substituted  goal-keeper  did  not  guarantee 
security.  There  was  weakness  in  that  most  responsible 
position,  in  that  point  de  transcendental  importancia  en 
la  defensia  de  un  team.  The  result — but  why  heap  up 
humiliation?  To  all  the  world  now  it  is  told,  only  too 
eloquently,  in  the  score.” 

The  Chilians  are  horsemen,  too,  and  great  breeders 
of  horses — even  the  Peruvians  import  their  best  stock 
from  their  rivals,  and  in  the  Paseo  at  Lima  they  are 
Chilian  coach-horses  which  drag  the  victorias  round 
and  round  the  statue  of  Bolognesi.  Bull-fighting 
having  been  abolished  in  Chile,  the  races,  in  a way, 
take  its  place,  and  all  the  town  flocks  to  the  “Club 
Hippico”  on  Sunday  afternoon.  It  is  a pretty  place, 
with  the  snow-capped  Cordilleras  in  the  distance  and 
the  paddock  and  club  enclosure  with  its  refreshment 
tables  and  trees — larger  than  the  little  course  at  Lima, 
more  polite  and  winsome  than  the  big  Jockey  Club  of 
Buenos  Aires.  Here,  of  a Sunday  afternoon  during 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


the  season,  the  “higgy-liffy”  of  the  little  capital  dis- 
plays itself,  both  in  its  role  of  exemplar  of  the  Few 
Families  and  in  that  less  conscious  but  no  less  enter- 
taining provincialism  which  a newly  arrived  member 
of  the  diplomatic  corps  doubtless  had  in  mind  when, 
on  my  asking  her  about  her  impressions  of  Chilian 
society,  she  said  that  they  seemed  to  do  nothing  but 
eat  and  get  their  pictures  taken.  The  club  enclosure 
has  all  the  quiet  intimacy  of  a garden-party.  The 
women  wear  their  prettiest  clothes,  the  men  are  rigor- 
ously arrayed  in  frock-coats  and  top-hats.  They  are 
very  punctilious  about  this,  and  on  the  afternoon  I 
was  there  were  much  less  excited  over  the  races  than 
over  the  fact  that  a lone  gringo,  who,  doubtless  assum- 
ing that  the  balmy  day  and  the  sporting  surroundings 
justified  his  behaving  as  though  it  were  July  at  home 
instead  of  south  of  the  tropics,  had  committed  the 
social  crime  of  wearing  a straw  hat.  Men’s  jaws 
dropped  as  they  beheld  him,  and  stately  beauties,  into 
whose  houses  a social  outsider  could  not  have  broken 
with  an  axe,  stared,  pointed,  and  giggled  like  shop- 
girls. 

There  is  less  of  this  punctiliousness  at  the  opera; 
even  in  parterre  boxes  grocer-like  papas  in  business 
suits  may  occasionally  be  observed  behind  their 
blooming  daughters.  The  daughters  are  likely  to  be 
much  younger  than  the  glittering  nymphs  who  adorn 
our  opera  boxes  at  home,  and  just  a little  awkward 
and  conscious  of  their  clothes.  But  the  beautiful  ones 
are  really  beautiful — tall  and  dark  and  pale,  with  a 

166 


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certain  vague  melancholy,  as  though,  perhaps,  they 
were  thinking  of  the  great  world  the  other  side  of  the 
tropics,  down  below  the  big  shoulder  of  the  earth  from 
which  they  were  fated  to  bloom  and  blush  unseen. 
German  opera  is  not  admired,  but  the  government 
subsidizes  very  fair  Italian  companies  who  come  out 
each  winter  and  sing  “Trovatore”  and  “Cavalleria 
Rusticana”  and  “Tosca”  and  the  rest.  No  pale  in- 
tellectuals to  frown  at  the  “Bravos”  here  or  shiver  at 
the  stretching  of  a top  note!  The  audience  shrieks  and 
thunders,  hisses  itself  into  silence,  only  to  break  forth 
again  in  applause.  The  first  tenor  bows  and  bows, 
steps  clear  out  of  his  part  and  down  to  the  footlights, 
finally,  with  a glance  at  the  orchestra  leader  as  who 
should  say  “They  will  have  it — just  watch  me  tear  it 
off  now!”  Up  goes  his  great  chest  as  the  high  note 
approaches,  the  sweat  rolls  down  the  grease-paint  in 
the  glare  of  the  footlights,  the  air  is  fairly  trembling 
with  pent-up  enthusiasm.  The  note  is  taken — held 
— on — on  where  does  the  man’s  breath  come  from? — 
brought  down  at  last  into  a swoop,  smothered  in  an 
avalanche  of  applause.  It’s  some  fun  being  a tenor 
here. 

Between  the  acts  the  young  men  drift  down  to  the 
orchestra-rail  to  sweep  the  house  with  their  glasses 
and  discuss  its  attractions.  After  the  performance 
they  crowd  in  the  foyer  like  “stags”  at  a cotillion  to 
watch  the  sehoritas  go  by,  and  between  times  there  is  a 
vast  amount  of  that  solemn  wireless  telegraphy  of 
which  a society  so  rigidly  chaperoned  must  needs  be 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


fond.  There  was  a young  woman  in  a box  across  from 
us,  a tall,  vigorous  beauty,  in  unrelieved  black,  who 
gazed  out  across  the  orchestra  like  a marble  statue. 
The  gossip  was  that  she  was  really  in  earnest,  and  the 
young  legation  secretary  was  only  playing,  and  so 
every  eye  was  on  him  when  he  sauntered  down  to  his 
orchestra  seat  alone  after  the  overture  was  nearly  done. 
He  was  a very  tall  and  gloomily  languid  young  man, 
and  knowing  that  everybody  was  watching  him  and 
why,  and  having  down  very  fine  that  mixture  of  cold 
elegance  and  ennui,  which  is  considered  the  last  word 
in  Buenos  Aires,  he  only  made  himself  look  more 
bored  than  ever.  He  would  raise  his  eyelids  or  a 
hand  with  the  calculated  slowness  of  a figure  moved 
by  clock-work.  Presently — and  this  was  what  every- 
one was  waiting  for — he  turned  slowly  until  his  gaze 
met  that  of  the  lady  in  the  box  and  bowed.  It  was  as 
if  he  said  a glance  from  her  would  make  him  but  clay 
beneath  her  feet  and  yet  he  was  so  aweary  that  not 
even  this  could  make  him  smile.  The  statue  vouch- 
safed him  a bow  only  a shade  less  cold  and  sad  than  his. 
Ever  and  anon  through  the  evening  he  would  slowly 
turn,  lift  his  stricken  gaze  to  the  box,  rest  it  there  with 
that  look  of  longing  unutterable,  and  as  slowly  turn  it 
back  again.  This  long-distance  coquetry  may  go  on 
for  months,  although  the  principals  may  have  never 
met.  It  is  what  the  Chilians  call  pololear,  from  the 
name  of  a kind  of  native  bee  which  makes  a prolonged 
buzzing  sound. 

Going  to  the  theatre  in  Santiago  generally  means, 

168 


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as  it  does  in  Lima,  looking  in  for  a zarzuela  or  two 
some  time  during  the  evening.  These  zarzuelas  are  one- 
act  pieces,  most  of  which,  including  the  companies  who 
play  them  and  the  Castilian  lisp  they  bring  with  them, 
come  over  from  Spain.  Three  or  four  are  generally 
put  on  in  one  evening,  the  house  being  cleared — except 
of  those  who  have  reserved  seats  for  more  than  one 
“turn’7  or  tanda — between  each  piece.  If  you  have 
dined  late  you  can  drop  in  for  the  second  one,  which 
begins  about  half-past  nine  generally,  and  if  you  have 
been  somewhere  else  during  the  evening  you  can  often 
catch  the  last  one,  which  starts  about  eleven  o’clock. 
The  arrangement  is  somewhat  similar  to  what  we 
should  have  in  our  music-halls  were  tickets  sold  at  ten 
or  fifteen  cents  for  each  separate  “turn”  instead  of 
for  an  evening,  and  it  is  informal,  convenient,  and 
economical.  Some  of  the  zarzuelas  are  musical,  some 
melodramatic,  but  commonly'they  lean  to  parody  and 
eccentric  comedy.  There  was  one  in  Santiago  called 
“Popular  Books.”  The  stage  was  set  as  a Madrid 
street  with  a book-stall  in  the  centre.  A simple  cus- 
tomer was  about  to  start  a library.  The  bookseller 
described  one  classic  after  another,  in  the  midst  of  each 
of  which  explanations  the  principal  characters  of  the 
book  appeared  from  the  wings*  and  did  a short  sketch, 
burlesquing*  the  main  points  of  the  story.  There  was 
a scene  between  Camille  and  Armand,  for  instance,  at 
the  end  of  which  the  Lady  of  the  Camellias  stalked  off 
the  stage,  leaving  her  blonde  wig  in  her  lover’s  hands, 
the  latter  in  an  ecstasy  of  repentance,  eyes  closed, 

169 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


thinking  that  his  fingers  still  rested  on  her  head  in 
fond  benediction.  The  audiences  are  very  alert,  and 
will  come  back  in  a flash  if  they  suspect  for  an  instant 
that  the  people  on  the  stage  are  trifling  with  them. 
That  same  evening  at  Santiago  there  was  one  heart- 
wrenching  piece,  at  the  climax  of  which  the  aged  father 
forgave  his  erring  daughter  and  clasped  her  in  his  arms. 
The  actress  who  endeavored  to  depict  this  maiden  was 
an  uncommonly  cheerful  and  well-developed  lady  of 
perhaps  175  pounds,  and  when  Simon,  the  heart-broken 
old  father,  gathered  her  to  himself  with  a gesture  more 
emphatic,  perhaps,  than  paternal,  and  buried  his  head 
in  her  hair  on  the  side  away  from  the  audience,  the 
simulation  of  grief  was  too  much  for  the  suspicious 
Iberian  temperament,  and  a voice  shrilled  down  from 
the  gallery,  "What’s  Simon  saying?” — tQue  dice 
Simon  ? 

The  most  interesting  performance  I saw  in  Santiago, 
however,  was  not  in  a theatre  but  in  a school-house,  in 
the  morning  instead  of  by  lamplight,  with  school-girls 
for  actresses  and  an  audience  of  three.  It  was  at  a 
normal  school  where  a number  of  very  earnest  young 
Chilian  women  were  learning  how  to  teach.  Girls  from 
the  poorer  families  of  the  neighborhood  came  by  day, 
just  as  our  children  go  to  a public  grammar-school; 
in  the  evening  the  young  teachers  had  classes  for  boys 
and  men  of  the  obrero,  or  mechanic  class,  and  between 
times  they  studied  books  on  pedagogy.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  among  them  not  to  recover  speedily  from 
whatever  of  the  gringo's  complacency  survived  at 

170 


SANTIAGO 


thirty-three  degrees  below  the  line.  All  spoke  English 
more  or  less,  the  principal,  a girl  of  perhaps  twenty- 
five,  fluently.  One  of  the  first  questions  she  asked  was 
the  name  of  the  critical  magazine  which  would  best 
keep  her  informed  about  intellectual  matters  in  North 
America.  "The  Ladies’  Home  Journal”  was  the  only 
one  of  our  magazines  which  came  to  the  school.  A 
class  in  English  was  reciting — reading  an  English  fable 
about  the  wicked  condor  and  the  poor  little  hare,  and 
the  use  the  latter  had  made  of  his  legs.  “Pooair-r- 
aleetle  hare-r-re” — they  would  read  in  extreme  em- 
barrassment, for  some  were  quite  grown  up — “what 
were  you  adoing  weeth  your  lace?”  It  may  be  em- 
barrassing, but  that  is  the  way  they  learn  English 
down  there,  and  the  way  our  spoiled  undergraduates 
generally  do  not  learn  the  languages — by  talking  them ; 
so  that  young  men  who  have  never  been  outside 
the  little  interior  town  in  which  the  seven-leagued 
gringo  meets  them,  can  chat  with  him  quite  fluently  in 
his  own  tongue.  After  classes  were  dismissed  for  the 
noon  recess  the  pupils  hurried  into  bloomers  and 
flannel  waists,  and  under  the  leadership  of  a young 
woman  with  that  austere  springiness  which,  except  in 
gymnasium  instructors,  is  ne’er  seen  on  sea  or  land, 
drilled  writh  dumb-bells  and  parallel  bars.  Then  they 
lined  up  and  sang  their  cancion  nacional,  and  after  that 
in  English,  “America,”  which  was  a polite  attention 
no  Chilian  would  ever  have  received  in  the  United 
States.  Then  they  drew  a long  breath,  smiled  up  into 
the  gallery  where  we  stood,  and  sang  quite  correctly 

171 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


and  with  tremendous  feeling,  "My  Old  Kentucky 
Home.”  It  may  be  that  every  roomful  of  South  Amer- 
ican school-girls  could  have  done  this  that  summer,  but 
Mr.  Root  was  then  a full  month’s  journey  distant  from 
Santiago,  and  all  I could  do  was  to  put  myself  in  the 
place  of  a Chilian  who  should  drop  into  a New  York 
school  by  chance  and  have  the  pupils  promptly  stand 
up  and  sing  his  national  anthem  and  follow  that  with 
some  ancient  Chilian  popular  song,  and  I do  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  at  least  one  of  their  audience  was  con- 
siderably stirred. 

Whatever  may  be  said  of  the  provincial  and  primary 
schools — generally  weak  in  Latin- America — here  in  the 
capital  the  well-to-do  take  care  of  their  own.  Sarmi- 
ento,  the  great  educator  of  the  Argentine,  and  its 
president  from  1868  to  1874,  a friend  of  our  Horace 
Mann  and  Elizabeth  Palmer  Peabody,  and  of  various 
enlightened  Europeans  of  his  time,  spent  some  of  his 
early  life  in  Chile  while  revolutions  were  disturbing  his 
native  province  of  San  Juan.  Education  was  the  great 
interest  of  his  life,  and  the  work  which  was  to  do  so 
much  for  Argentina  began  in  Santiago,  during  this 
voluntary  exile,  some  twenty-five  years  before.  To- 
day, in  Santiago,  in  addition  to  the  public  primary 
schools,  there  is  the  State  University,  with  1,700  stu- 
dents; the  Catholic  University;  the  National  Institute, 
a secondary  school  with  1,168  pupils;  and  various 
others  of  a more  or  less  private  sort.  Santiago 
College,  which  takes  girls  at  the  kindergarten  age  and 
graduates  them  eleven  years  later  from  a liberal  arts 

172 


SANTIAGO 


course,  the  senior  year  of  which  includes  “English  Lit- 
erature and  Rhetoric,  Spanish  Literature,  Geometry, 
Astronomy,  Geography,  Sociology,  History  of  Art, 
English  Elocution,  Nature  Talks  and  Gymnasium 
Work,”  looks,  as  one  walks  through  it,  like  any  well- 
conducted  girls’  boarding-school  at  home.  Classes 
were  over  for  the  day  when  I was  there,  but  in  the 
gymnasium  four  little  primary  girls  were  imitating 
with  a solemnity  and  abandon,  which  these  little 
Latins  take  to  like  ducks  to  water;  the  gestures  of  the 
elocution  teacher,  who  waved  his  arms  in  front  of 
them.  There  is  nothing  they  like  better.  They  throw 
all  their  romantic  little  souls  into  these  sonorous  periods 
that  fairly  speak  themselves,  until  they  remind  one 
less  of  our  own  children  “speaking  pieces”  than  little 
voix  d’or  Bernhardts  intoning  the  lines  of  “Phedre.” 
There  is  a boys’  school  of  somewhat  the  same  class, 
called  the  “ Institute  Ingles.”  It  was  founded  in  the 
late  seventies  by  Presbyterians  and  now  has  a Prince- 
ton man  for  principal,  while  most  of  the  teachers  are 
American.  There  were  some  three  hundred  pupils 
here,  about  a score  of  whom  were  Bolivians.  Their 
school  paper,  “The  Southern  Cross,”  took  one  back  at 
a glance  to  the  school  papers  of  home. 

“Back  at  the  1. 1.,”  began  its  column  of  “Locals  and 
Personals,”  in  the  time-honored  manner. 

“Glad  to  see  you. 

“Hope  you  had  a good  vacation. 

“Gustavo  Valengula,  brother  of  Julio,  has  returned 
after  two  years’  absence. 


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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

“The  Boys  are  practising  early  this  year  for  the 
field  meet. 

“The  Thunder  Football  Team  has  kindly  given  us 
permission  to  use  their  ground  in  the  Quinta  Normal. 

“The  Andean  Literary  Society  has  begun  its  year’s 
work. 

“A  challenge  was  sent  to  the  Captain  of  the  Am- 
mategui  Football  Club  by  the  Institute,  and  an  exciting 
game  was  played,  the  final  score  being  four  goals  to 
two  in  favor  of  Ammategui. 

“Line  up:  Instituto — Goal,  Auget;  Backs,  Zamora, 
Robinson  (Capt.);  Half-backs,  Mena,  Vallejos,  Lira. 
Forwards,  Vergara,  Raiteri,  Carabantes,  Munoz,  Qui- 
roga,  etc.,  etc.”  Change  a name  or  two  and  it  might 
be  the  Medford  “Tiger”  or  the  Cherryville  High  School 
“Owl.” 

This  paper  had  a Spanish  and  an  English  editor,  and 
part  was  printed  in  one  language  and  part  in  the  other. 
There  was  a translation  from  “The  Literary  Digest,” 
and  from  a “North  American  Review”  article  on  “Is 
Literature  Destroyed  by  Journalism?”;  an  article  on 
scholarships  in  the  schools  of  the  United  States  and — 
typical  example  of  the  fond  faith  of  Latin  America — a 
translation  of  the  “liberty  or  death”  speech  of  Patrick 
Henry.  Boys  in  school  nowadays,  I suppose,  are 
discriminating  and  understand  that  the  Patrick 
Henry  kind  of  thing  is  antique  rhetoric,  not  to  be  taken 
very  seriously.  They  still  like  that  kind  of  rhetoric 
down  there — “Sehor  Presidente:  es  natural  en  el  hombre 
alimentar  las  ilusiones  de  la  esperanza  ” — boom  out  the 

174 


SANTIAGO 


familiar  words  in  the  rolling  Castilian;  “ Is  life  so  dear” 
— “Es  la  vida  tancara  6 la  paz  tan  dulce  parasercom- 
prada  al  precio  de  la  libertad  y la  esclavitud?  Impedidlo, 
Dios  Todopoderoso  /”  They  have  not  read,  you  see,  the 
muck-raking  magazines.  They  do  not  know  of  our 
various  frenzied,  shamed,  and  tainted  things.  They 
still  believe  in  us. 

The  Chilians  have  long  been  pleased  to  consider 
themselves  the  sturdiest  people  of  South  America. 
Before  the  war  with  Peru  this  was  probably  true,  and 
in  a lesser  degree  it  is  true  to-day.  The  victory  and 
the  the  nitrate  have  not  been  an  unmixed  good.  The 
get-rich  possibilities  of  nitrates  have  spoiled  them 
somewhat  for  slow,  hard  work  and  provided  temptations 
for  “graft.”  Nitrates  have  built  up  the  army  and 
navy  and  provided  free  schools.  But  those  who  get 
this  free  education  are  young  men  who  could  per- 
fectly well  afford  to  pay  for  it  themselves.  The  Chile 
of  to-day  is  a Chile  of  the  second  generation,  less  sim- 
ple, less  inclined  to  get  out  and  hustle.  I do  not  mean 
that  parasitism  begins  to  be  an  accomplished  fact,  nor 
that  agriculture  and  mining  and  manufacturing  will 
not  gradually  grow  and  hold  up  the  industrial  struct- 
ure when  the  bottom  has  dropped  out  of  the  more 
spectacular  nitrates,  as,  some  time  or  other,  of  course 
it  must.  But  it  is  a tendency,  and  this  and  the 
growing  power  of  the  roto  and  obrero  classes,  and  the 
beginning  of  trades-unions  and  night-schools  and  strikes 
— all  this  very  modern  unrest  and  agitation  make 
Chile  interesting.  One  gets  beyond  exotic  charm  and 

175 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


among  people  who  are  thinking  and  working  and  won- 
dering why. 

Here,  for  instance,  close  to  Mr.  Sporting  Boy’s  talk 
on  football,  under  the  heading,  “Una  Costumbre  Anti- 
patriotica,”  is  a typical  echo  of  that  self-analysis,  un- 
rest, and  criticism  which  one  meets  daily  in  newspapers 
and  talking  with  Chilians.  Pellegrini,  one  of  the  ex- 
presidents of  Argentina,  has  just  died,  and  the  leader 
writer,  referring  to  the  tributes  to  his  memory  in  Buenos 
Aires,  applauds  the  way  in  which  the  Argentines  stand 
up  for  their  own. 

“It  is  otherwise,”  says  he,  “in  Chile.  Ask  any  of  the 
strangers  who  visit  us.  The  first  impulse  of  a Chilian 
of  good  position,  in  speaking  of  Chile,  is  to  say  that  it  is 
badly  governed,  its  cities  scarcely  habitable,  public  men 
dishonest,  society  corrupt,  that  it  exhibits  all  that 
which  is  worst  on  this  earth  below.  We  do  not  exag- 
gerate. It  is  a daily  spectacle  in  our  most  aristocratic 
clubs.  Whenever  a new  diplomat  arrives,  a minister 
or  secretary  of  legation,  or  merely  a casual  traveller, 
you  will  hear  some  such  conversation  as  this: 

“‘You  are  pleased  with  Santiago?’ 

“'Absolutely.  Santiago  is  a most  agreeable  place. 
I am  delighted  with  Chile.  I am  very  anxious  to  know 
more  about  the  country.  I find  Chilian  society  charm- 
ing.’ 

“‘You  are  saying  that  out  of  pure  gallantry  and  as 
a good  diplomat.  It  is  really  a wretched  time  to  see 
the  country.  Everything  is  disorganized.’ 

“‘Oh,  you  are  merely  passing  through  one  of  those 

176 


SANTIAGO 

crises  that  come  with  progress.  That  has  occurred  to 
many  countries.’ 

“‘No;  we  have  no  illusions.  The  government  is 
enough  to  make  one  ashamed.  And  Congress — and  the 
Santiago  streets — and  the  railroads — how  shameful 
to  have  such  a creature  in  as  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs ” 

“‘Why,  it  seems  to  me  that  Mr.  So-and-So  is  a very 
able  statesman.’ 

“‘No,  no.  Only  a rascal — a bandit — a fool.’ 

“Whoever  has  visited  the  Argentine  Republic  knows 
that  these  things  are  ordered  differently  there.  Before 
strangers  the  Argentinean ” 

One  day  a bundle  of  home  newspapers  dropped  into 
Santiago — midsummer  newspapers  full  of  stories  of 
baseball  games,  sunstrokes,  ice-famines,  chowder- 
parties,  politics,  big  crops,  and  all  the  homely,  humor- 
ous gossip  from  police  courts  and  country  towns.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  explain  to  anyone  who  has  not 
at  one  time  or  another  become  temporarily  Latinized 
just  how  one  felt  on  opening  a Chicago  paper  to  find 
the  editor  of  the  “Emporia  Gazette”  quoted  as  remark- 
ing of  the  architecture  of  his  face  that  “there  was 
nothing  but  features  in  it,”  and  to  see  on  the  front 
page  a cartoon  of  a book-keeper — the  sort  of  hard- 
worked,  patient,  quizzical  office-slave  that  McCutcheon 
would  draw — poring  over  a ledger  in  his  shirt-sleeves, 
while  a thermometer  near  by  registered  ninety-six 
degrees,  and  in  a woodeny  cloud  above  his  head  floated 
a vision  of  water,  a hammock,  a shirt-waist  girl,  and  a 

177 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

pitcher  of  lemonade.  This  breath  of  home  and  the 
dog-days  coming  into  that  southern  winter  and  the 
toy-aristocracy,  with  its  quaint  mixture  of  punctilious- 
ness and  provincialism,  suddenly  made  clear,  as  few 
things  could,  some  of  the  fundamental  differences  be- 
tween ourselves  and  our  Latin  neighbors.  It  was  im- 
possible to  imagine  a Chilian  editor  of  Mr.  William 
Allen  White’s  attainments  talking  about  himself  in 
type  with  that  intimate,  half-deprecatory  humor.  As 
completely  alien  to  such  a place  as  Santiago  was  that 
homogeneity  of  feeling,  that  love  for  people  just  be- 
cause they  are  people,  even  to  the  length  of  taking 
interest  in  the  common  physical  emotions,  which  had 
made  it  natural  to  put  on  the  front  page  of  a great  paper 
the  picture  of  a warm  and  over-worked  young  man  in 
his  shirt-sleeves.  To  the  South  American  periodista  it 
would  have  seemed  almost  indelicate.  His  paper  is 
published  for  an  upper  crust  of  people,  most  of  whom 
think  a good  deal  about  the  dignity  of  their  position. 
He  and  they  take  themselves  seriously.  His  editorials 
are  written  in  the  grand  manner,  like  messages  to 
Congress.  When  he  wants  to  lighten  the  paper  he 
prints  illustrations  from  foreign  journals  or  translations 
of  French  novels  or  letters  from  very  literary  corre- 
spondents. If  a Spanish-American  cartoonist  were  to 
use  such  a subject,  he  would  get  his  effect  in  a purely 
visual  and  external  way — the  poor  clerk  would  be  seen 
melting  down  like  an  image  of  wax  or  catching  on  fire. 
Physical  grotesqueries  of  this  sort  are  typical  of  Span- 
ish humor — people  getting  hanged  and  kicking  and 

178 


SANTIAGO 


squirming  absurdly,  heads  being  sliced  off  and  looking 
greatly  surprised  at  its  being  done,  a butcher  sawing 
through  a bone  and  cutting  off  the  ends  of  his  fingers. 
It  is  the  racial  variation  of  our  kicking  mules  and 
slippery  banana-peels.  It  would  never  have  occurred 
to  him  to  sentimentalize  the  hard-working  young 
clerk,  to  make  his  appeal  not  to  his  audience’s  eyes  or 
sense  of  the  grotesque,  but  to  their  human  sympathy, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  there  is  no  community  of 
feeling  in  the  people  about  him  of  which  this  would  be 
an  expression. 

It  is  the  lack  of  this  atmospheric  sense  of  kinship 
which  often  makes  young  North  Americans  poorer  col- 
onists than  their  German  and  British  competitors. 
They  pine  away  in  the  chill  vacuum  between  the  punc- 
tilious upper  class  and  the  illiterate,  impossible,  lower 
world.  There  is  none  of  our  blessed  vulgarity — using 
the  word  in  its  most  literal  and  highest  sense — none  of 
that  cheerful,  half-humorous  consciousness  of  common 
weaknesses  and  resignation  to  a common  fate.  There 
is  no  warm,  comfortable  middle  ground.  The  whole 
arrangement  of  society  is  aristocratic,  democratic 
though  it  be  in  name. 

And  yet,  if  I were  to  choose  from  all  the  Other 
Americans  I met,  the  one  whose  experience  had  most 
nearly  duplicated  that  of  an  able  and  energetic  man 
at  home,  it  would  probably  be  a citizen  of  this  very 
City  of  the  Hundred  Families.  This  young  man  was 
a newspaper  editor,  and  a South  American  redactor 
is  generally  a very  mighty  person,  indeed.  Yet  he 

179 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


affected  none  of  the  ambassadorial  grand  manner. 
He  was  what  the  South  Americans  call  simpdtico — 
which  does  not  mean  merely  sympathetic,  but  con- 
notes a general  notion  of  things  agreeable,  congenial, 
and  winsome — and,  at  the  same  time,  level-headed, 
and  sensible.  He  spoke  English  with  scarcely  an 
accent,  and,  although  he  had  never  been  in  the  States, 
talked  about  us — the  railroads,  trusts,  insurance,  the 
negro  question  — with  an  embarrassing  ease  and  fa- 
miliarity. Quite  frankly  and  with  great  good-humor  he 
told  about  the  good  and  bad  that  had  come  from 
the  nitrate  fields,  the  things  Chilians  of  the  old  school 
must  bring  themselves  to  meet.  The  government  rail- 
road might  interest  some  of  our  people.  It  was  badly 
equipped,  carelessly  run,  and  it  was  impossible  to 
keep  up  the  efficiency  of  the  employees.  No  sooner 
was  a man  discharged  for  inefficiency  than  some  poli- 
tician got  him  his  job  back  again.  As  for  education, 
he  wished  that  more  of  the  money  spent  on  university 
and  secondary  instruction  might  be  put  into  primary 
and  grammar  schools.  The  result  was  a kind  of  intel- 
lectual poverty.  The  upper-class  boys  get  their  educa- 
tion free,  but  what  did  they  give  back  to  the  state  in 
return? 

“They  get  their  degrees,”  was  the  way  he  put  it, 
“but  what  do  they  do  with  their  lives  afterward?” 

It  was,  indeed,  still  true  that  the  country  was  dom- 
inated by  the  old  families.  But  this  could  not  last 
forever,  and  even  now  politics  was  reaching  out  beyond 
the  pale.  As  he  said  this  he  picked  up  a morning’s 

180 


A Corpus  Christi  procession  in  the  plaza  in  Santia; 


SANTIAGO 


paper  and  ran  his  pencil  down  the  list  of  names  of  the 
newly  elected  senate — Figueroa,  Irarzaval,  Fernandez, 
Tocornal — all  conservatives  these,  as  one  could  tell  by 
their  names;  yet  here  beside  them  were  two  new  men, 
one  a shopkeeper,  neither  of  whom  had  any  connection 
with  the  old  families  at  all. 

Indeed,  as  far  as  tills  went,  he,  himself,  was  quite 
what  in  the  States  we  should  call  a “self-made  man.” 
He  had  come  from  a poor  family  in  the  south  of  Chile, 
without  money  or  connections,  thinking  at  first  that 
he  was  going  to  be  a great  literary  man.  He  had 
written  poems  in  those  days,  even  a novel.  Possibly — 
and  unless  you  have  had  some  little  acquaintance  with 
the  continent  in  which  every  other  man  who  can  write 
at  all  tries  to  be  “literary,”  you  can  hardly  appreciate 
the  quite  “American”  quality  of  this  half-humorous 
self-deprecation — one  might  still  find  a copy  of  it  in 
the  book-shops.  After  a while  he  decided  that  he 
wasn’t  a genius,  and  went  to  work  for  a newspaper. 
And  here  he  was  at  the  top — the  mighty  redactor,  au- 
thor of  an  “inspired”  editorial  which  the  country 
gravely  read  each  morning,  and  still  a young  man,  he 
knew  everyone,  was  received  everywhere,  could  go  into 
the  Congress  if  he  wanted  to. 

I had  dropped  in  on  this  man  unexpectedly  in  a busy 
part  of  the  day,  and  I took  up  an  hour  or  so  of  his  time 
asking  tiresome  questions,  and  yet  to  the  end  he  be- 
haved with  the  good-humor  and  good  sense  of  the  best 
type  of  North  American,  and  with  the  courtesy  of  the 
Spanish  gentleman.  He  was  almost  what  is  called  “a 

181 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


good  mixer,”  and  anything  more  alien  to  the  tradi- 
tional upper-class  Latin-American  than  that  it  is  hard 
to  imagine.  It  is  men  like  this  who  are  the  southern 
continent’s  men  of  to-morrow,  who  are,  indeed,  the 
Other  Americans. 


CHAPTER  XI 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS  IN  WINTER 

The  wall  of  the  Andes  begins  at  the  Caribbean  and 
runs  all  the  way  down  the  western  edge  of  South 
America  until  it  trails  off  into  the  Antarctic  like  a 
jagged  dragon’s  tail.  It  is  a very  high  wall  and  a very 
wide  one — sometimes  scores  and  sometimes  hundreds 
of  miles  across — and  except  in  a few  places  all  but  im- 
passable. There  is  the  Oroya  railroad  in  Central  Peru, 
the  highest  in  the  world,  which  will  take  you  from  the 
drowsy  tropical  coast  at  breakfast  time  and  by  early 
afternoon  set  you  on  the  roof  of  the  divide,  shivering 
and  breathing  fast,  fifteen  thousand  and  five  hundred 
feet  above  the  sea.  There  is  a railroad  up  to  Lake 
Titicaca  from  Mollendo  in  southern  Peru,  which  crosses 
the  shoulder  of  the  Andes  at  an  altitude  about  a thou- 
sand feet  lower,  and  there  is  a railroad  running  down 
into  Chile  and  the  coast  from  the  Bolivian  plateau. 
The  only  railroad  highway  which  crosses  the  continent, 
however,  is  that  which  climbs  the  Chilian  mountains 
to  the  pass  of  Uspallata  and  runs  thence  across  the 
pampa  to  Buenos  Aires.  Some  day  this  will  be  a 
through  line  from  sea  to  sea,  and  in  a dozen  or  more 
places  tunnel  gangs  are  nibbling  under  the  upper 

183 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


Cordillera;  but  now  it  is  open  only  during  the  summer, 
and  even  then  the  fourteen  kilometres  over  the  cumbre, 
or  summit  of  the  pass,  must  be  made  by  stage.  In 
winter  no  attempt  is  made  to  cross,  and  from  Mendoza, 
in  the  Argentine  foothills,  over  to  Los  Andes  on  the 
Chilian  side — about  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles — the 
road  is  closed. 

The  Andes  in  these  parts  rise  to  appalling  heights, 
the  loftiest  of  which  is  Aconcagua’s  twenty-four  thou- 
sand feet,  and  the  pass  itself  is  at  not  far  from  thirteen 
thousand — 3,900  metres  to  be  exact.  During  the  win- 
ter— the  months  of  our  northern  summer — it  is  buried 
in  snow,  the  deadly  temporal  is  likely  at  any  time  to 
whirl  down  on  the  traveller,  and  crossing  the  cordillera 
is  as  different  a thing  from  crossing  it  in  summer  as 
crossing  a Montana  prairie  carpeted  with  spring  violets 
is  different  from  venturing  into  it  during  a blizzard, 
when  a man  may  lose  his  way  and  freeze  to  death  a 
furlong  from  the  ranch-house  door.  Whoever  tries  to 
cross  after  the  first  of  June  is  supposed  to  take  his  life 
in  his  hands.  I want  this  thoroughly  understood. 
The  earth  is  getting  extremely  civilized  and  the  num- 
ber of  things  reckoned  as  impossible  or  even  dangerous 
to  do  are  decreasing  every  day.  No  man  with  any 
regard  for  his  reputation  can  be  too  careful.  Before 
I went  to  South  America  the  Chilian  Minister  in  Wash- 
ington told  me  that  he  had  got  across  once  the  second 
week  in  June,  but  only  at  the  loss  of  one  of  his  men. 
Acquaintances  in  Santiago  assured  me  that  if  one 
escaped  freezing  or  starvation  one  was  always  likely 

184 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


to  fall  a victim  to  rotos  who,  discharged  by  the  tunnel 
engineers  for  drunkenness,  had  become  embittered 
against  the  world  and  devoted  their  lives  to  hiding  in 
narrow  passes  and  rolling  boulders  down  on  whoever 
went  by.  And  the  two  gifted  reporters  of  the  Buenos 
Aires  “Prensa” — familiar  with  the  country  naturally, 
and  students  of  men — who  interviewed  the  traveller 
after  his  arrival  in  that  metropolis,  declared  in  their 
story  the  next  day  that  the  “ molest ias”  and  “ penurias” 
which  he  had  “endured  during  this  via  crucis  were 
imposible  de  narrar  and  revealed  a man  of  courage  and 
will  unconquerable.”  That  ought  to  prove  something. 

Lest,  however,  this  should  seem  merely  the  reckless 
exploit  of  a tenderfoot,  I hasten  to  explain  that  there 
was  I waiting  in  Santiago,  there  was  the  distinguido 
canciller  norte  americano,  Senor  Root,  within  a few 
days  of  Buenos  Aires  and  the  most  splendid  moments 
of  his  continental  tour.  Through  some  perverse  fate, 
there  was  no  mail-boat  sailing  round  through  the  Straits 
for  another  week,  the  voyage  would  take  at  least  ten 
days,  and  the  thought  of  limping  into  the  harbor  of 
Buenos  Aires  just  as  the  parting  salutes  were  being 
fired  and  the  Charleston  was  dropping  down  the  bay, 
was  not  to  be  borne.  So  here  was  the  choice:  on  the 
one  hand  a week’s  wait,  a racking  fortnight  by  sea  and 
the  probability  of  missing  the  festivities  in  Buenos 
Aires;  on  the  other,  avalanches,  bandits,  death  and 
destruction,  but — the  fascinating  chance  of  fairly 
stepping  across  the  continent,  as  it  were,  like  climbing 
over  a garden  wall.  Three  days  in  the  snow,  the  local 

185 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


down  to  Mendoza  and  then,  if  one  caught  the  bi-weekly 
express,  Buenos  Aires  in  twenty-four  hours  more — five 
days  instead  of  three  weeks.  There  was  no  choice  here, 
surely,  so  I packed  up  one  afternoon  and  took  the  train 
for  the  foothills. 

It  was  the  hour  when  the  Andean  rampart,  blocking 
the  eastern  sky-line,  melted  in  the  afterglow  into  a 
purple  and  amethyst  mystery  and  became  at  once 
beautiful  and  vaguely  fearful;  when  the  newsboys 
crying  the  afternoon  papers,  the  dark-eyed  Chilian 
ladies  coming  out  to  drive,  the  crowded  sidewalks,  the 
lights  beginning  to  blink  in  the  shops,  occasional  twilight 
odors  of  flowers  and  feminine  perfumes  and  Brazilian 
coffee  and  cigarette  smoke  made  the  Chilian  capital  a 
place  hard  to  leave  behind.  The  Valparaiso  express 
whirled  up  to  Llai  Llai — which  you  pronounce,  cheer- 
fully, “Yi!  Yi!” — and  I shifted  into  the  local  for  Los 
Andes.  I slept  there  that  night  at  the  little  hotel 
whose  English  landlady  sniffed  the  air  as  she  closed 
my  shutters  and  prophesied  snow,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, after  emptying  my  trunk  and  packing  my  luggage 
in  two  of  the  landlady’s  empty  potato-sacks,  in  bun- 
dles of  thirty  kilos  each,  found  a corner  in  a repair-car 
bound  up  the  line.  Laboriously  we  panted  past  the 
zone  of  farms,  above  the  snow-line  presently,  and  the 
chill  breath  from  the  ice  chambers  of  the  upper  levels 
crept  down  and  pierced  one’s  bones.  At  last  the  end 
of  the  road  and  Juncal,  at  about  7,800  feet — a station, 
an  engineer’s  shack,  a traveller’s  posada,  little  blots  on 
the  expanse  of  white,  far  above  which,  climbing  one 

186 


Juncal,  on  the  Chilian  side  at  the  end  of  the  railroad,  at  an  altitude  of  about 

7,800  feet. 


On  the  trail  from  Portillo. 


The  natural  bridge  of  Puenta  del  Inca, 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


behind  another  and  vanishing  in  the  chill,  steely  mist, 
stretched  the  portals  of  the  Cordillera. 

There  were  no  burden-carriers  ready,  although  the 
amateur  bandit — a British  railroad  superintendent — to 
whom  I had  paid  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  Chilian 
“to  set  me  down  on  the  other  side,”  as  his  graceful 
euphemism  had  it,  had  promised  that  they  were  wait- 
ing all  along  the  line.  The  trail  was  too  steep  and 
rough  for  mules.  And  as  the  afternoon  was  fair  and  I 
was  anxious  to  push  along  as  far  as  possible  while  the 
weather  held,  I left  the  luggage  to  be  brought  on  as 
soon  as  men  could  be  found  and  started  up  the  trail 
alone. 

Juncal  diminished  to  a polka-dot  in  the  snow.  The 
valley  sunk  and  widened,  the  heads  of  foothills  lower 
down  came  out.  Up  above  meandered  the  trail,  like 
some  Jack-and-the-Beanstalk’s  path  to  regions  un- 
known, and  beyond  it,  rising  endlessly,  peaks  and  shoul- 
ders of  naked  rock  and  snow  disappearing  in  the  steely 
mist.  Occasionally,  down  the  stillness,  came  a faint  tick- 
tack — the  far-carried  sound  of  the  tunnelers  nibbling 
into  the  mountain  a mile  or  two  away.  And  presently, 
after  a climb  of  seven  kilometres  and  about  a thousand 
feet  up,  there  appeared  in  the  snow  some  low  roofs  and 
walls  which  looked  the  pictures  of  winter  quarters 
that  Arctic  explorers  bring  home. 

Winter  quarters  they  were  in  this  weather,  although 
merely  to  house  the  commissary-chief  of  the  tunnel 
gangs,  and  likely,  as  a photograph  he  showed  me  later 
proved,  to  be  buried  under  forty  feet  of  snow  when  a 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


temporal  came.  He  stood  in  the  low  doorway  to  greet 
me,  a big,  bearded,  downright  Scotchman,  little  dream- 
ing, I dare  say,  how  welcome  in  this  silent  wilderness 
that  welcome  seemed.  It  was  twilight  by  now — the 
hour  which  the  Britisher’s  teacup  follows  round  the 
world.  It  was  ready  oh  the  table  and  with  it  crisp 
British  biscuits  and  the  inevitable  British  jam.  There 
was  a fire  in  the  room,  which  was  more  than  could 
be  said  for  the  hotel  left  behind  in  Santiago,  an  oil 
stove  that  kept  the  place  piping  hot.  There  were  book- 
cases on  the  walls.  Kipling,  Thackeray  and  Stevenson, 
and  on  the  table  the  “Spectator,”  “Pick  Me  Up”  and 
“The  Pink  Un.”  There  was  the  company’s  physician, 
too — a very  Dr.  Watson  of  a doctor,  who  came  in  from 
skeeing,  presently,  in  knickerbockers,  ruddy  and  cheer- 
ful, and  sat  down  with  us  to  tea.  The  Scotchman 
threw  up  his  hands  when  he  heard  what  I had  paid  for 
the  privilege  of  walking,  became  reassuringly  furious 
when  he  heard  that  the  luggage-carriers  had  not  been 
provided  forthwith,  set  the  company’s  telephone  wire 
burning  back  down  to  the  trail  to  Los  Andes  and  on  up 
the  pass  to  Carocoles.  What  were  they  thinking  of, 
what  right  had  they  to  do  such  things,  how  could  they 
leave  this  poor  stranger  stranded  here  in  the  mountains 
— now  in  English  and  in  burring  Spanish,  while  I sat 
back  and  beamed. 

When  the  big  lamp  had  been  lit  and  dinner  served, 
from  some  recess  of  that  superlative  little  cave  ap- 
peared our  proveedor's  wife — "wonder  of  wonders  in 
these  desolate  mountains — a gentle*-voiced  English- 

188 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


speaking  woman,  with  that  clear  Northern  glance  of 
intelligence  and  understanding  which  the  gringo  some- 
how often  misses  in  the  prettier  eyes  of  the  Latin 
Americans.  She  took  her  place  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  wrapping  us  about  in  a certain  grateful  sense  of 
orderliness  and  God-fearing  dignity,  and  we  dined  po- 
litely and  well  that  night  up  there  in  the  snow.  After 
the  table  was  cleared  we  gathered  round  the  stove  and 
smoked  and  talked  mightily  of  nations  and  navies  and 
wars,  as  strange  men  thrown  thus  together,  are  wont 
to  do,  and  the  world  seemed  a very  good  old  world  in- 
deed, when  the  three  Indians  and  I started  up  the  trail 
for  Carocoles  the  next  morning  with  the  proveedor 
waving  a good-by. 

Portillo  slipped  over  the  edge  of  the  slope  as  Juncal 
had  done.  In  spite  of  the  altitude  and  the  weight  they 
carried — one  with  the  empty  steamer  trunk,  in  which 
a stick  and  a straw  hat  rattled  lugubriously,  the  other 
two  with  the  bag  and  gunny  sacks — they  chug-chugged 
steadily  up  the  slope.  We  met  the  Argentine  mail 
coming  down — half  a dozen  poncho-clad  burden-carriers 
who  gave  a cheery  “Bueno’  Dias,  senor!”  and  a grin 
and  a “Ha’  yego”  as  they  stumped  away.  We  struck 
Carocoles — a roomful  of  blueprints,  an  engineer,  more 
tinned  meat,  more  coffee — and  then,  just  at  luncheon 
time,  started  the  steep  climb  over  the  cuinbre.  It  was 
close  to  twelve  thousand  feet  now  and  like  climbing  a 
Gothic  roof.  We  took  turns  breaking  trail,  each  man 
stepping  into  the  footmarks  of  the  man  ahead,  and 
every  fifty  yards  or  so  the  burden-carriers  stopped  and 

189 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


leaned  on  their  staffs  puffing  in  a strange  fashion 
like  steamboat  whistles  blowing  far  aw’ay,  while  the 
adventurous  mastiff  which  had  followed  us  from 
Carocoles  squatted  in  the  snow,  panting  and  grinning 
with  the  greatest  good  humor.  We  had  been  at  it  stead- 
ily for  perhaps  two  hours  when  the  leader  pointed  up 
the  slope. 

“Cristo!”  he  said,  and  a quarter  of  a mile  ahead  we 
saw  a figure  standing  out  against  the  gray  sky. 

It  was  the  statue  which  the  two  nations  set  there 
wrhen  they  signed  their  peace  agreement.  It  stands  at 
the  very  summit  of  the  pass,  over  which  in  1817  the 
great  San  Martin  marched  his  men  into  Chile  to  break 
the  power  of  Spain,  on  the  line  between  Chile  and  the 
Argentine.  It  is  a statue  of  Christ,  standing  beside  a 
cross,  and  on  the  pedestal  two  figures  in  low-relief, 
sitting  back  to  back,  point  out  over  the  tumbled  sea 
of  peaks  and  valleys  to  east  and  wTest. 

To  the  countries  who  set  it  there  it  means  or  it  is 
meant  to  mean,  an  everlasting  peace,  and  to  us,  too, 
it  meant  peace  and  that  the  hardest  part  of  the  journey 
was  over,  and  we  unslung  burdens  and  rested  there  for 
a moment,  in  great  cheerfulness,  on  the  summit  of  the 
divide.  Then  we  sat  dowTn  on  our  sheepskins  and  slid 
down  into  Argentina.  It  was  done  with  great  eclat. 
The  chief  bandit  wrent  first,  with  my  legs  under  his 
arms,  as  though  we  were  school-boys  together;  the  other 
two  followed,  the  packs  and  the  trunk  piling  snow 
before  them  like  a plough,  a proceeding  calculated,  one 
might  fancy,  to  induce  strange  thoughts  in  the  uneasy 

190 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


stick,  umbrella,  straw  hat  and  other  summer  vanities 
locked  therein.  At  the  foot  of  the  slope  was  Las  Cue- 
vas, one  day  to  be  the  Argentine  end  of  the  tunnel, 
and  another  engineer’s  camp.  Its  chief  was  a Nor- 
wegian, the  proveedor  was  a Frenchman  with  a long, 
delicately  curly  beard  which  he  carefully  sprayed  with 
a perfume  atomizer  before  we  sat  down  to  dinner  that 
night,  and  the  mechanical  engineer  was  an  American, 
who  had  put  in  machinery  all  over  the  world,  and  who 
averred  that  the  altitude  and  the  solitude  got  on  his 
nerves  so  that  a man  might  come  into  his  room  and 
take  his  watch  from  under  his  pillow  before  he  could 
pull  a gun,  even  though  he  “had  been  born  in  Boise 
City  and  seen  a little  life,  too.”  We  had  just  settled 
once  again  that  night  what  would  have  happened  had 
the  Japanese  attacked  Great  Britain  instead  of  Russia, 
when  the  telephone  buzzed  and  Carocoles  called  across 
the  summit  that  another  white  man  was  coming  over 
and  if  I could  wait  until  nine  o’clock  the  next  morning 
we  might  go  down  together.  A man  who  could  walk 
from  Juncal  to  Carocoles  in  one  day  and  feel  like  cross- 
ing the  curnbre  before  nine  o’clock  the  next  morning 
was  worth  waiting  for. 

He  came,  all  right,  a lithe,  close-knit  figure  in  riding 
breeches  and  blue  serge  coat,  swinging  down  the  slope 
in  a fashion  that  showed  he  had  gone  ’cross  country 
before.  He  had  no  baggage  but  a battered  kit  bag 
which  contained  little,  apparently,  but  the  trousers 
that  matched  the  coat.  With  this  outfit  he  was  ready 
at  five  minutes’  notice  for  the  town  or  “bush”  and  to 

191 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


carry  more  was  absurd.  You  could  always  buy  clothes, 
he  said,  throw  them  away  when  you  moved  on  and  save 
enough  on  baggage  charges  to  buy  new  stuff  at  the  next 
place.  He  was  an  engineer — that  is  to  say,  he  had 
knocked  about  the  world  from  one  construction  camp 
to  another — and  it  was  quite  true  to  South  America, 
where  a white  man  with  mechanical  sense  is  valuable, 
that  this  unbranded  maverick,  who  might  have  been 
from  his  face,  a professional  bull-fighter  or  a bareback 
rider  in  a circus,  was  on  his  way  to  England  to  buy 
hydraulic  machinery  for  some  South  Chilian  mines.  He 
was  thirty,  perhaps,  with  one  of  those  sinister,  yet  not 
unattractive  faces,  which  remind  one  of  a street-dog 
whose  head  is  nicked  and  scarred  with  many  battles. 
He  talked  little,  asked  no  questions  and  laughed,  when 
he  did  laugh,  harshly  and  rather  mirthlessly.  He  had 
come  from  Australia  originally,  the  stick  he  swung  was 
made  of  the  same  wood  of  which  the  Fuegian  Indians 
made  their  bows,  and  he  could  ask  for  bread  or  its 
substitute  in  the  lingo  of  the  Upper  Nile,  the  Zulu 
country,  the  Transvaal  and  the  Australian  “bush.” 
He  spoke  of  the  remote  corners  of  the  earth  as  men 
do  of  shops  at  which  this  or  that  thing  can  best  be 
bought.  It  was  “good”  down  here  in  South  America 
now — no  use  going  to  the  Transvaal  any  more,  nothing 
in  Australia  for  him.  Whatever  answered  to  him  for 
the  rule-and-line  man’s  work  or  profession  seemed 
something  wholly  casual,  and  to  be  picked  up  or  caught 
like  gold  or  trout.  I was  a fool  to  go  back  to  the  States 
by  way  of  Rio — why  in  hell  didn’t  I take  the  New 

192 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


Zealand  boat,  touch  at  Cape  Town  and  see  Australia? 
You  could  buy  a bicycle  next  to  nothing  these  days  and 
the  roads  were  so  good  in  Australia  you  could  ride  all 
over  the  place  and  see  everything  worth  seeing  for 
forty  dollars  American. 

We  had  got  two  mules,  one  of  which  the  muleteer 
wanted  to  ride  and  one  of  which  carried  the  baggage, 
but  the  Australian  was,  as  the  Los  Cuevas  proveedor 
observed,  “un  diablo  a andar ,”  and  we  swung  down  the 
slope  like  Indians.  And  in  that  thin  air,  in  the  fresh 
frostiness  of  morning,  nothing  less  than  ropes  and 
levelled  guns  could  have  kept  a live  man  on  a mule. 
We  had  just  crossed  the  roof  of  the  continent,  on  our 
own  legs  and  lungs,  and  the  easy  slope  stretched  below 
— down  to  the  foothills,  to  the  pampa  far  below,  to 
Buenos  Aires  and  the  sea  and  the  long  up-trail  to 
Europe  and  the  States. 

Aconcagua  heaved  up  on  the  left  through  a rift  in 
the  valley,  vanishing  into  some  gray  swirling  region  of 
mist  and  snow.  Fourteen  kilometres  brought  us  to 
the  steaming  baths  of  Puenta  del  Inca,  where  a winter- 
bound  hotel  keeper  dug  up  a lunch  from  his  stores  and 
a bottle  of  the  spicy  Argentine  claret  to  wash  it  down, 
and  then  on  we  pushed.  Toward  sundown,  thanks 
to  a telegram  sent  ahead  from  Puenta  del  Inca,  a fresh 
mule  came  picking  his  way  up  the  trail,  and  as  darkness 
closed  in  the  snow  gave  way  and  we  began  to  rattle 
over  dry  stones.  This  was  so  exhilarating  that  when 
we  reached  the  Paramillo  de  Las  Vacas,  where  we  had 
planned  to  spend  the  night,  we  saddened  the  mule- 

193 


T PI E OTHER  AMERICANS 


driver  and  infuriated  the  mules  by  deciding  to  push  on 
three  more  kilometres  to  Zanjon  Amarillo  to  which  the 
railroad  was  still  open  and  where  we  might  catch  a 
repair  train  the  next  day. 

Night  settled  down.  Every  few  hundred  yards  we 
had  to  make  wide  detours  where  slides  had  heaped  the 
roads  with  rocks.  Nothing  but  a continuous  bombard- 
ment kept  the  mules  moving  at  all.  But  the  thought 
of  getting  back  to  a railroad,  of  a lodging  for  the  night — 
to  my  disordered  imagination  even  a bath  seemed  pos- 
sible— buoyed  us  on.  A lone  light  presently  sparkled 
down  the  canon.  We  reached  the  deserted  station 
and  unslung  the  packs.  We  had  walked  and  ridden 
forty-three  kilometres  that  day — descending  to  slightly 
below  eight  thousand  feet — twenty-seven  miles,  most 
of  it  over  a rough  snow  trail  which  was  a succession  of 
frozen  muletracks  a foot  or  two  deep.  We  were  just 
relaxing  in  that  self-congratulatory  coma  which  follows 
such  an  adventure  when  the  mule-driver,  who  had  dis- 
appeared toward  the  one  light  in  the  place,  came  back 
with  the  information  that  nobody  would  take  us  in. 
It  could  not  be  possible.  Here  were  two  travellers  with 
money  in  their  belts,  here  was  an  impoverished  Andean 
station-master,  light,  fire,  food,  warmth — no,  it  must 
be  impossible.  I went  myself.  A woman  opened  the 
door,  a scant  two  inches,  no  more.  No,  she  had  no  food, 
no  place  for  us  to  sleep,  no  blankets  to  lend  us  to  sleep 
outside,  not  even  a bite  of  bread  nor  a swallow  of  wine. 
No,  nothing — absolutamente  nada ! And  the  door  closed. 
Apparently  she  was  afraid  of  us.  There  were  bandits  in 

194 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


the  Cordillera.  And  we  were  they.  It  seems  amusing 
now  but  it  didn’t  then.  It  was  a vast  cosmic  tragedy 
— two  heroes  poised  here  somewhere  between  two 
oceans,  in  a rocky  desert  on  a winter  night,  lame, 
fagged,  no  food,  no  blankets,  no  one  to  appreciate  their 
heroism.  The  mule  man  came  at  last  to  the  rescue.  A 
friend  of  his,  he  mumbled  in  his  queer  lingo,  three 
kilometres  farther  down  the  canon,  might  take  us  in. 
Was  it  possible  to  propel  our  battered  carcasses  three 
kilometres  more?  Not  weeping,  but  half-way  to  tears, 
as  Peer  Gynt  would  say,  we  packed  the  outraged 
mules  again  and  started  down  the  track. 

Of  course  one  might  have  known  that  there  would 
be  trouble.  You  can’t  fool  all  the  mules  all  the  time. 
I got  down  from  mine  finally  after  vainly  trying  to  keep 
up  with  the  other  two  by  kicking  a steady  tattoo  on  his 
ribs  and  found  that  by  walking  behind  him  he  also  could 
be  induced  to  walk.  The  instant  I came  up  on  a level 
with  his  head  he  stopped  as  though  turned  to  stone. 
I had  just  worked  out  this  system  when  a light  twinkled 
in  the  distance,  a dog  barked,  and  through  the  darkness 
came  a clatter  of  hoofs  as  the  other  mules  were  gal- 
vanized to  life.  At  the  sound  my  mule  started  as 
though  shot  out  of  a gun.  I just  managed  to  catch  the 
pack  behind  the  saddle  and  for  a hundred  yards  we 
pursued  this  unequal  race  when,  just  as  we  were 
scrambling  up  a gully,  I was  struck  in  the  chest  by  a 
cannon-ball.  I dropped  and  rolled  down  the  stones  with 
as  much  abandon  and  realism  as  though  I were  being 
employed  by  a biograph  agent  to  assist  in  manufactur- 
es 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

ing  a view  of  the  siege  of  Port  Arthur.  Then  all  was 
still.  The  events  of  his  past  life  filed  in  quick  succession 
across  the  traveller’s  brain,  as  he  stared  up  at  the  un- 
sympathetic zenith.  I was  conscious  of  a smell  of  dust 
and  shrubs,  of  stars  twinkling  far  overhead.  It  seemed 
sad  to  die  there,  so  far  from  home  and  friends,  alone,  cut 
off  in  one’s  bloom  under  these  cold  Andean  stars. 

Came  a call — like  a life-belt  to  a ship-wrecked  mar- 
iner— “Patron!  Patron /”  It  was  our  bandit,  another 
of  those  charming  professional  bandits  like  the  one  who 
had  slid  downhill  with  me,  leading  my  mule  and  want- 
ing to  know  if  I was  hurt.  My  wind  returned.  I was 
not  dead,  only  a tooth-brush  in  an  inside  pocket  was 
shattered  beyond  repair.  And  we  rode  on  to  our 
lodging  for  the  night,  the  mule  laughing  lightly  on  the 
way. 

It  was  a stone  hut  like  a little  cave  with  a corrugated 
iron  roof  and  a low  door  through  which  shone  lamp  and 
firelight.  Our  host  stood  in  front  of  it,  a mongrel, 
half-breed  sort  of  fellow,  keeping  back  his  dogs.  This, 
at  least,  should  have  been  a regular  bandit  and  this  is 
what  he  did. 

“Bueno?  noches,  senor!”  he  said,  and  cursing  back 
the  dogs,  he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  into  the 
hut  as  though  I were  a princess.  Supper  was  already 
cooking  on  the  stove  for  him  and  his  friends,  who, 
judging  by  the  wine  jug  and  the  half-drained  tumblers, 
were  preparing  to  make  a night  of  it ; but  they  wrapped 
their  ponchos  about  them  and  withdrew  to  one  side, 
wliile  he,  pressing  his  hands  to  his  heart  with  abject 

190 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 

apologies  for  his  “ pobre  casa,”  made  us  sit  down  on  the 
only  bench.  It  was  drawn  up  to  a shelf-table  against 
the  wall  on  which  the  bloody  head  of  a sheep,  apparent- 
ly butchered  that  day,  stared  lugubriously  out  of  fishy 
eyes.  He  brought  out  some  of  the  unleavened  pie- 
crusty  bread  and  the  spicy  native  wine,  while  his  wife, 
cutting  some  pieces  from  a chicken  which  had  been 
boiled,  head  and  all,  down  to  the  very  bill,  put  them  on 
to  broil.  If  he  had  been  brought  up  on  tales  of  Spanish 
hospitality,  he  could  have  done  no  more.  Continually 
he  apologized  for  his  poor  house,  every  move  made  near 
us  was  with  a “con  su  permiso,”  and  when  wre  tried 
to  apologize  for  our  intrusion  and  he  heard  that  the 
Australian  had  once  worked  on  the  Carocoles  division, 
he  said  that  “to  have  work  for  Helmundson  was  worth 
four  letters  of  introduction.”  He  was  an  Argentine 
and  his  wife  was  a Chilian,  but  he  “knew  the  Ingleses” 
and  thought  they  were  a particularly  fine  gente.  When 
we  were  done  he  led  us  with  great  ceremony  into  the 
little  whitewashed,  hermetically  sealed  room  adjoining, 
containing  the  only  bed  he  owned.  He  brought  in  a 
tumbler  of  water  and  set  it  on  the  box  beside  the  bed. 
“Siempre  bueno ,”  he  said,  looking  from  the  glass  to  us, 
and  spreading  out  his  hands.  And  then,  when  he  had 
us  there,  two  tired  white  men  supposedly  with  money 
in  their  clothes  and  helpless  before  him  and  his  friends, 
he  unslung  his  own  revolver,  a big  Colt’s  44,  and  with  as 
much  care  as  though  he  were  sighting  a cannon,  laid  it 
on  the  box  beside  the  glass  of  water,  with  the  muzzle 
pointed  toward  the  door  and  ready  to  our  hands. 

197 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


We  slept  the  sleep  of  the  weary  that  night  while  the 
bandits,  drinking  each  other’s  saluds  and  wailing  the 
melancholy  cries  with  which  the  mountaineers  drive 
their  mules,  sent  strange  storm-winds  blowing  through 
our  dreams.  The  next  morning  we  flagged  a wrecking 
train,  and  with  that  intoxicating  speed  which  only  those 
who  have  experienced  for  a few  days  the  tragic  little- 
ness of  a human’s  machinery  can  understand,  swept 
down  to  Uspallata.  Here  we  must  needs  sleep  on  the 
station  floor  that  night  and  wait  the  next  day  while  the 
wrecking-crew  shovelled  avalanches  off  the  track.  We 
— the  Australian  and  an  Englishman  whom  I had  met 
on  a West  Coast  boat  and  never  expected  to  see  again — 
played  bridge,  shot  at  bottles,  and  vainly  tried  to  lure 
a neighborhood  condor  into  seeing  distance  by  climbing 
half-way  up  a mountain,  lying  down  on  a bare  rock  and 
pretending  to  be  dead,  and,  toward  sundown,  at  last 
started  down  the  ninety-two  kilometres  to  Mendoza. 
In  a tool-car,  lit  only  by  our  cigarettes,  we  swayed 
round  canons  and  over  bridges,  rolled  down  through 
the  foothills,  and  at  bedtime  climbed  out  of  the  car 
into  warm  air  and  what  might  have  been  a Kansas 
county-seat,  with  a grocery  store  on  the  corner  and 
long  streets  with  elms  arching  over  them,  lit  by  electric 
lights. 

All  our  movements  the  next  day  were  characterized 
by  that  exaggerated  leisureliness,  amounting  almost  to 
calculation,  that  dreamy  benignity,  which  men  who 
have  been  roughing  it  for  a time  exhibit  when  they 
find  themselves  once  more  lapped  in  the  infinite 

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ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


comforts  of  civilization.  Lazily  we  strolled  across 
the  sunshiny  court  to  the  bath-rooms  and  wal- 
lowed interminably  in  stone  tubs  as  big  as  life- 
boats, dressed  and  breakfasted  with  exquisite  care, 
and  drifted  about  town  with  a sort  of  moon-struck 
purr. 

It  was  a comfortable  little  city  of  thirty  thousand 
or  so,  with  broad  overhanging  trees  and  a certain  atmos- 
phere of  the  soil,  of  agricultural  vigor  and  wholesome- 
ness, different  from  the  average  Latin-American  town. 
Its  main  street  was  full  of  shops  for  harness  and  farm 
machinery,  and  in  some  of  the  stores  machines  were 
demonstrating  as  at  a county  fair.  Capable-looking 
farmers  watched  them — doubtless  from  the  vineyards 
round  about — and  among  them  were  Italians  in  cordu- 
roys and  with  bright  handkerchiefs  around  their  necks, 
a husky,  thick-necked  breed,  different  from  most  of  the 
immigrants  who  flock  to  our  shores.  Down  this  cobble- 
stoned  street,  which  was  wide,  overhung  with  trees 
rather  like  our  Northern  elms,  and  named  after  the  great 
San  Martin,  they  had  their  corso,  or  carriage  parade 
that  afternoon.  Victorias  with  bells  on  the  tongue  and 
two-wheeled  country  carts  pounded  over  the  cobble- 
stones at  a brisk  trot,  so  that  the  band,  which  stood  in 
a circle  on  the  broad  sidewalk,  was  completely  drowned 
out.  But  the  happy  farmers  and  Mendoza’s  distin- 
guidas — vigorous,  handsome  young  Chloes,  dark-skinned 
and  dark-eyed,  with  a shadow  of  down  on  the  upper 
lip  and  painted  and  powdered  regardless — didn’t  mind 
this  in  the  least  and  rattled  enthusiastically  on,  beam- 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


ing  from  ear  to  ear.  There  was  a certain  provincial 
good  humor,  a rather  exhilarating  vulgarity  about  all 
this  which  seemed  to  belong  to  this  country  of  princely 
cstancias,  of  cattle  and  wheat  and  wine,  of  grazing  land, 
stretching  flat  as  a sea  from  horizon  to  horizon — the 
pastoral  echo  of  the  raw,  splendid  metropolis  of  Buenos 
Aires. 

They  were  thriving,  provident  folk,  these  Mendozians, 
just  such  a first  generation  as  that  which  gathered  the 
money  for  those  who  are  sowing  the  wind  in  Buenos 
Aires  to-day.  One  of  their  endowment  insurance 
organizations  had  just  celebrated  its  fifth  anniversary 
— the  windows  of  its  office  on  this  same  main  street 
were  hung  with  copies  of  a paper  it  had  published  con- 
taining reports  of  its  progress  and  portraits  of  some 
of  its  sturdiest  subscribers.  On  the  middle  page  was 
a large  family,  all  of  whom,  from  the  bull-necked  father, 
with  his  stubby  fingers  set  firmly  on  his  knees,  to  the 
baby  in  arms,  had  paid  up  their  premiums  in  advance 
and  were  star  members  of  the  “Caja  International.” 
One  enthusiastic  subscriber  had  contributed  a poem: 


International  Strong  Box, 
Institution  powerful, 

Which  advances  ever  gloriously 
In  pursuit  of  its  high  ideal. 

Arriba  los  corazones! 

Kada  de  miedos  pueriles! 

Si  hoy  nos  contamos  por  miles 
Pronto  seremos  milliones! 

200 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


More  in  the  real  Mendoza  manner  was  a dialogue 
between  father  and  little  son,  which  ran  as  follows : 

Nino:  Papa,  give  me  five  centavos. 

Padre:  Why  do  you  want  that,  my  hijito ? 

Nino:  To  buy  caramels. 

Padre:  Caramelas!  Ah,  what  so  wretched  things 
are  those  caramelas!  You  will  make  yourself  sick  and 
destroy  your  teeth.  Never  eat  caramels,  my  hijito. 

Nino:  What  shall  I buy  then? 

Padre:  Nothing,  my  boy,  because  you  don’t  need 
anything.  Why  not  put  the  five  centavos  which  I give 
you  every  day  to  some  better  use? 

Nino:  And  what  should  I do  with  them,  Papaito  t 

Padre:  Put  them  in  a bank  which  I will  tell  you 
about.  Then  at  the  end  of  a month  how  many  would 
you  have  in  the  little  bank?  Can  you  count  that 
much? 

Nino:  Certainly,  papa;  thirty  days  multiplied  by 
five  will  give  me  one  hundred  and  fifty  centavos. 

Padre:  Correct — a dollar  and  a half.  That  little 
sum  deposited  each  month  in  the  “Caja  Internacional ” 
will  bring  you  after  twenty  years  a good  pension  for  all 
your  life. 

Nino:  Dios  mio!  And  must  I wait  twenty  years  to 
receive  the  pension? 

Padre:  Yes — the  time  is  long,  but  the  sacrifice  you 
make  is  insignificant,  and  besides,  how  old  are  you 
now? 

Nino:  Ten  years,  little  papa. 

Padre:  Very  well.  When  you  are  thirty  and  in  the 

201 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


very  prime  of  life,  will  it  not  seem  a great  joy  to  receive 
every  month  a pension? 

Nino:  You  do  not  know,  papa,  how  this  idea  pleases 
me!  I’ll  begin  to-day  to  save  all  the  centavos  you  and 
mamma  give  me,  but — a doubt  comes  to  me 

Padre:  Speak,  my  son,  what  may  that  be? 

Nino:  Tell  me,  papa,  if  rascals  should  steal  all  the 
money  in  the  “Caja  Internacional,”  how  could  it  pay 
the  pensions  it  promises? 

Padre : That  is  impossible,  for  two  reasons.  First, 
because  all  the  money  destined  to  pay  pensions  is 
invested  in  great  buildings,  houses,  land,  etc.,  which 
produce  large  incomes,  and  which,  as  you  can  very 
well  comprehend,  no  thief  can  steal  or  put  in  his  pocket- 
book.  And,  secondly,  I must  tell  you  that  those  at  the 
head  of  the  “Caja  Internacional”  are  all  honorable 
men,  who  watch  its  interests  tirelessly,  and  will  permit 
no  thefts  nor  irregularities. 

This  seems  to  prove  it  and  after  the  father  explains 
how  the  pension  may  be  obtained  before  twenty  years 
by  paying  a larger  premium,  the  thrifty  youngster 
decides  to  take  out  two  annuities. 

“So  that  I will  receive  two  pensions!”  he  cries. 
“One  ten  years  from  now  and  the  other  in  twenty.  Oh, 
what  happiness!  Thanks,  a thousand  thanks,  dear 
papa!  I want  no  more  caramels,  nor  sweets,  nor  toys 
of  any  kind!” 

Except  for  the  sight  of  this  quaint  corso,  whanging 
up  and  down  the  Boulevar  San  Martin,  delighted  with 
itself  and  drowning  out  the  band,  and  of  the  theatre 

202 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


audience  that  night  with  half  the  young  men  in  the 
parquet  in  their  hats  and  a gentleman  in  a proscenium 
box,  one  hand  on  the  hip,  twirling  in  the  other  the  last 
whisper  of  “el  sport  ingles,”  a cane  fashioned  like  a golf 
club,  with  a silver  cleek  for  a handle — time  was  lacking 
to  penetrate  very  deeply  into  what  the  Mendoza  society 
editor  called  “our  gran  mundo Indeed,  it  appeared 
that,  at  the  moment  there  was  a slight  slump  in  the 
activities  of  Mendoza’s  gay  world.  “We  have  heard,” 
admitted  the  society  editor,  with  that  veiled  and  con- 
servative phraseology  necessary  in  communities  of 
moderate  size,  “a  number  of  conversations  tending  to 
devise  means  to  discover  some  variation  in  the  pro- 
gramme of  our  distractions,  in  order  that  they  may  not 
be  wholly  and  exclusively  theatre-parties.” 

There  had  been,  apparently,  a lack  of  team-work. 
“It  would  always  be  easy,”  said  the  society  editor, 
“to  find  a solution  in  those  moments  of  crisis  which 
occasionally  assault  our  social  life  when,  in  spite  of  the 
general  desire,  not  a single  fiesta  is  realized,  if  those 
remedies  could  be  put  in  practice  which  the  ladies, 
without  troubling  much  about  it,  hit  upon  in  their 
informal  gatherings. 

“According  to  the  ladies,  they  are  more  enthusiastic, 
and  if  they  could  act  with  all  the  freedom  which  the 
masculine  sex  uses,  we  should  never  have  to  lament 
those  occasional  seasons  of  boredom.  They  are  often 
overheard  to  make  vigorous  recriminations  against  the 
young  men. 

“On  the  other  hand,  the  young  men  say  that  it  is 

203 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


not  enough  for  them  to  plan  attractive  things,  for  they 
often  find  that  when,  with  the  best  intentions,  they 
have  gone  to  a great  deal  of  trouble  and  work,  they  are 
obliged  to  abandon  the  whole  thing,  owing  to  insur- 
mountable obstacles. 

“The  fact  is,”  concludes  the  editor,  “the  blame  is 
on  both  sides.  Let  us  hope  that  the  good  intentions 
now  active  may  succeed  in  bringing  some  new  element 
into  the  distracciones  de  nuestro  gran  mundo .” 

From  this  metropolis  of  the  foothills,  the  biweekly 
express — a compartment  sleeping-car,  what  looked  like 
an  ordinary  Pullman,  several  day-coaches  and  a dining- 
car — like  an  overland  train  at  home  except  for  the 
unfamiliar  width  necessitated  by  the  broad  trans- 
continental gauge — hurried  us  away  the  next  evening 
toward  Buenos  Aires.  All  night  we  rode  and  the  next 
morning  were  whirling  eastward  at  fifty  miles  an  hour 
across  the  level  pampa.  It  was  raining,  all  the  earth 
was  saturated  and  hung  with  mist,  and  under  this 
mist,  although  the  last  week  in  July,  and  midwinter, 
the  cattle  were  still  grazing  on  “green  feed.”  The 
prairie  was  level  as  a summer  sea — once  the  track  was 
laid  for  two  hundred  miles  without  a curve,  as  straight 
as  a line  ruled  across  a sheet  of  paper — from  horizon  to 
horizon  only  grass  and  cattle  and  more  cattle  and  more 
grass.  From  time  to  time  appeared  a station,  with 
shabby  buildings  clumped  round  about,  a stockade,  a 
grain  elevator  perhaps,  a few  bronzed  cattlemen  in 
ponchos,  boots  covered  with  pasty  mud.  Nothing  else 
broke  the  level  earth.  And  after  the  West  Coast 


204 


ACROSS  THE  CORDILLERAS 


deserts,  the  choked  and  drowsy  jungles  of  the  North, 
these  infinite  open  stretches,  with  their  brown  armies 
of  long-horned  steers,  unrolling,  mile  after  mile  and 
hour  after  hour,  saturated  with  moisture,  fertile,  en- 
veloped in  mists,  seemed  limitless  as  a sea,  suggested  a 
potentiality  and  fecundity  incalculable. 

Darkness  shut  down  on  the  prairie,  there  came  more 
frequent  stations,  suburbs  at  last,  then  the  twinkling 
extent  of  the  city.  A hotel  courier  in  uniform  put  me 
into  a cab,  the  cab  rolled  quietly  off  to  the  hotel  over 
asphalt  streets  glistening  under  arc  lamps  and  dripping 
with  rain.  A hall-boy,  and  a chamber-maid  in  neat 
black  and  white,  led  the  way  to  my  room  and  turned 
on  the  lights.  It  was  extremely  magnificent.  The 
lamps,  shaded  in  rose-colored  silk,  suffused  in  a mellow7 
luxuriance  the  brass  bedstead  with  its  counterpane  of 
silk  and  down-quilt  folded  at  the  foot,  the  window 
curtains  of  heavy  rose-colored  silk,  the  polite  writing- 
desk  with  its  candle,  wax,  seal,  and  carefully  arranged 
note  paper  bearing  the  monogram  of  the  house. 

The  major-domo  knocked  to  get  Senor’s  name  and  to 
ask  if  he  had  dined.  The  luggage  followed  and  with  it 
the  freshly  starched  maid,  carrying  one  of  the  gunny- 
sacks,  still  a trifle  damp  and  smelly  from  the  mountain 
snows.  She  held  it  as  far  as  she  could  at  arm’s  length, 
dropped  it  in  a corner  and  tripped  out  with  lifted  eye- 
brows. It  began  to  be  a little  lonesome ; gone  were  the 
barbarous  inns  of  the  provinces  where  one  sent  the  half- 
breed  mozos  away  laughing,  with  a good-natured  push 
on  the  head.  I ventured  to  the  door  and  peered  down 

205 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


into  the  inner  court.  The  guests  had  mostly  finished 
their  dinners  and  were  taking  their  coffee  there.  There 
were  a German  father  and  mother  and  their  tall  son, 
one  unmistakable  American  female  voice,  the  inevitable 
Britishers.  All  were  in  evening  clothes,  from  all  ema- 
nated the  tourist’svaguelyirritatingairof  ignorance  and 
self-complacency.  Dinner  was  still  being  served  in  the 
room  adjoining,  the  orchestra  feverishly  playing,  and 
from  there  and  up  from  the  inner  court  rose  a composite 
breath,  of  heat,  the  odor  of  food,  wine,  smoke  and  per- 
fume, of  flowing,  aimless  talk,  the  unmistakable  breath 
of  a city  hotel,  of  sophisticated  wealth  and  worldliness. 
It  was  a long,  long  way  to  Las  Cuevas  and  the  Cumbre 
and  Portillo,  and  the  walk  downhill  that  frosty  morn- 
ing. We  had  stepped  across  the  continent  indeed,  and 
back  into  the  world  again. 


206 


CHAPTER  XII 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

As  we  were  walking  home  one  night  along  the  Alameda 
in  Santiago,  I suggested  to  the  young  English  engineer, 
whom  I had  just  met  at  dinner,  that  after  his  six  months 
in  the  mines  it  must  seem  good  to  get  back  to  town 
again.  He  agreed  that  it  did,  but  added  that  after 
all  there  wasn’t  much  in  Santiago  for  a man  like  him. 
He  had  been  buried  in  a wilderness  of  snow  and  rocks, 
without  even  a Spanish  newspaper  to  give  him  a 
whisper  from  the  world,  and  he  came  down  from  the 
mountains  with  emotions  not  unlike  those  of  a ravening 
wolf  who  suddenly  finds  himself  approaching  a well- 
nourished  lamb-chop.  And  he  heaved  a great  sigh  and 
asked  if  I knew  Buenos  Aires. 

“Buenos  Aires!”  he  repeated,  in  that  fond  enthus- 
iasm which  overtakes  men  who  have  dined  pleasantly 
and  are  walking  home  under  the  stars  together,  and  as 
this  seemed  the  proper  time  for  that  banality,  I said 
that  I supposed  that  that  was  the  Paris  of  South 
America. 

“Paris!”  he  cried,  “Why,  man!  There’s  more  life 
in  a minute  in  Buenos  Aires  than — why,  you  talk  about 
Paris — Buenos  Aires  is  Paris  given  a kick  and  told  to 
wake  up,  that’s  what  Buenos  Aires  is!” 

207 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


He  meant,  I suppose,  not  that  Buenos  Aires  is  the 
second  Latin  city  in  the  world;  not  its  schools  and 
hospitals  and  well-kept  streets,  its  convenient  trolley- 
lines  and  excellent  newspapers;  not  the  wheat  and 
cattle  that  pour  thence  from  the  Argentine  pampa  to 
help  feed  the  European  cities — but  that  it  supplied 
with  particular  effectiveness  the  needs  of  a voracious 
young  Saxon  who  had  been  spending  six  hard  months 
in  the  frozen  Andes,  trying  to  keep  a lot  of  Chilian  rotos 
from  drinking  and  knifing  each  other  to  death.  He 
could  see,  I dare  say,  over  the  trees  of  that  quiet  Ala- 
meda, beyond  the  Andean  wall  which  shut  in  our  little 
Chilian  world,  the  Jockey  Club  “Hipodromo”  on  a 
Sunday  afternoon;  the  carriage  parade  afterward  in 
the  Avenida  Sarmiento,  moving  four  rows  deep,  and 
the  horsetail  helmets  and  cuirasses  of  the  mounted 
police  shining  in  the  sun ; the  victorias  and  shimmering 
parasols  flowing  through  the  Recoleta,  or  the  Calle 
Florida  ablaze  with  lights;  the  “Sportsman”  at  din- 
ner time,  crowded  with  men,  with  a band  booming  in 
the  balcony,  and  on  the  wall  biograph  pictures  of 
steeple-chasers  and  Oriental  dancers;  theatres,  the 
opera,  possibly  some  such  sailor’s  paradise  as  that  vast 
steely  blue  barn  of  a Casino,  with  its  art  nouveau 
nymphs  and  sizzling  arc  lamps,  where  French  singers, 
Spanish  dancers,  German  acrobats  and  English  music- 
hall  performers  follow  one  another  in  dizzjr  profusion, 
and  a great  mob  smokes  and  shouts  its  comments  in 
every  language  under  the  sun. 

It  is  a thumping,  cheerful  sort  of  place,  this  Casino — 

208 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


about  what  our  Carnegie  Music  Hall  might  be  if  it  were 
turned  into  a Folies-Bergere.  The  Five  Broadway 
Girls  appeared  the  night  I was  there.  They  wore 
blonde  wigs,  to  show  that  they  were  English,  and  sang 
in  a strange,  half-Cockney  dialect,  not  quite  like  any- 
thing else  ever  heard  on  sea  or  land.  For  an  encore  one 
of  them  threw  on  a black  velvet  princesse  gown  and 
while  the  others,  aided  by  parasols  and  old-fashioned 
hoop-skirts,  danced  a comic  background,  she  paraded 
along  the  footlights — “ce  qui  fait  valoir  des  lignes  plutbt 
appetissantes,”  as  the  reporter  of  “La  Divette”  put  it  in 
his  review  that  week,  “Je  vous  dis  que  c’est  a voir” — and 
panted  for  an  explanation  of  why  it  was  that  they 
called  her  a Gibson  Girl.  She  did  not  make  a very 
good  Gibson  Girl,  but  she  looked  well  in  her  black  dress, 
nevertheless,  and  the  audience  liked  it  exceedingly. 
And  as  she  undulated  along  the  footlights  to  their 
applause,  it  struck  me  that  this — to  have  one’s  drawings 
sung  about  by  a lady  in  a blonde  wig,  sandwiched  in 
between  a Neapolitan  cantante  and  a troupe  of  inter- 
national wrestlers,  thirty-four  degrees  south  of  the 
equator  before  an  audience  that  yelled  its  approval 
in  three  or  four  languages  was  what  a mere  North 
American  artist  might  well  call  fame. 

Or  he  even  may  have  seen,  beyond  those  snow}'-, 
silent  Andes,  the  garish  front  of  the  Royal,  which  lies 
round  the  corner  from  the  Casino  and  just  across  from 
the  Opera,  so  that  the  ninas  and  their  richly  uphol- 
stered mammas  may  wonder  at  its  lithographs  and 
watch  the  strange  men  drifting  thither  as  their  carriages 

209 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

wait  in  line.  The  orators  tell  you  that  South  America 
is  the  future  home  of  the  Latin  races,  as  North  America 
will  be  the  home  of  the  Saxons.  In  such  a place  as  the 
Royal,  and  in  music  halls  like  it  on  the  East  Coast, 
one  feels  as  though  the  hard  law  of  competition  had 
already  got  in  its  work  and  driven  hither  all  the  spangled 
ladies  who  were  unable  to  keep  an  engagement  in  Paris 
or  Naples  or  Madrid,  and  whose  only  art  is  the  ability 
to  articulate  a few  songs  and  keep  a bodice  on  while 
continually  giving  the  impression  that  it  is  about  to  fall 
off.  On  the  little  stage  of  the  Royal  they  follow  one 
another  in  melancholy  procession,  each  in  the  same 
kind  of  strapless  bodice  and  stiff,  spangle-encrusted 
skirt,  and  with  the  same  wriggling  of  powdered  shoul- 
ders and  pressing  of  hands  to  the  heart,  rattle  off 
French  songs  that  all  sound  exactly  alike.  When  they 
can  sing  a few  words  in  broken  English  or  German,  an 
international  or  cosmopolita  is  added  to  their  names. 
The  audience  smokes  and  stares,  cynical,  indifferent, 
scarcely  taking  the  trouble  to  applaud,  and  as  their 
turns  are  finished  they  resume  street  clothes  and  re- 
turn to  the  boxes  that  encircle  the  parquet,  there  to 
survey  critically,  occasionally  even  to  applaud,  those 
who  come  after  and  now  and  then  to  smile  at  one 
another  across  the  smoky  horseshoe  in  their  curious 
camaraderie.  You  will  see  them  again  on  the  French 
liner  going  north,  in  steamer  chairs  billed  to  Sao  Paulo 
or  Rio,  veiled  from  the  ocean  sunshine  writh  the  solici- 
tude of  the  real  artiste  and  treated  with  much  half- 
shy, half-jocular  attention  by  the  younger  officers. 

210 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


Here  in  the  metropolis  they  make  almost  a little  half- 
world, which  drives  with  the  others  at  Palermo,  or  in 
the  late  afternoon  through  Florida  Street,  and  has  its 
own  little  paper  in  which  the  charms  of  Suzanne  and 
Lucy  and  Blondine  and  Parisette — “triple  extrait  de 
chic  et  de  chair,  fleuri  sur  Vasphalte  de  la  grande  ville  ” — 
are  analyzed  with  intimate  enthusiasm,  and  their  go- 
ings and  comings  solemnly  chronicled. 

Of  course  there  are  other  things  in  Buenos  Aires. 
There  are,  for  instance,  over  a million  busy  people  to 
a majority  of  whom,  probably  all  this  means  as  little 
as  Broadway,  in  its  narrower  sense,  means  to  the  greater 
part  of  New  York.  And  there  is  the  country  itself, 
from  which,  more  or  less  directly,  these  people  live  and 
of  which  it  is  the  hub  and  heart,  in  a way  that  no 
North  American  city  begins  to  be;  not  impassable 
mountain  ranges  nor  frosty  plateau  nor  miasmic  jungle, 
but  level,  fertile  prairie  like  Kansas  and  Nebraska, 
webbed  with  railroads  and  covered  with  wheat-fields 
and  cattle.  Argentina  is  the  fourth  wheat-producing 
country — in  a good  year  it  sends  as  much  to  Europe 
as  is  sometimes  sent  from  the  United  States — and  its 
vast  pampa  and  a climate  which,  although  temperate, 
provides  “green”  feed  all  the  year  round,  makes  it  one 
of  our  strong  rivals  in  supplying  meat  to  Europe. 
Some  one  hundred  and  fifty  million  bushels  of  wheat 
were  raised  on  these  plains  in  1906.  To  Europe  from 
the  pampa  ranches  that  year  went  nearly  3,000,000 
sheep  and  over  2,000,000  quarters  of  beef,  in  the  form 
of  frozen  or  chilled  meat,  in  addition  to  some  seven 

211 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


thousand  tons  of  "jerked”  beef,  and  some  forty 
thousand  sheep  and  cattle  shipped  on  the  hoof.  And 
practically  all  of  the  resulting  commerce  flows  to 
and  from  the  Buenos  Aires  docks.  They  are  trim, 
these  docks,  masonry  basins  strung  with  electric 
cranes  as  thick  as  shade  trees  on  a street.  Well 
over  two  thousand  ocean-going  vessels  arrive  in  the 
year. 

And  not  even  New  York’s  wharves,  with  their  far 
vaster  commerce,  give  such  a picture  of  the  vivid  bustle 
and  infinite  whispering  of  the  sea.  For  at  home,  as  you 
ride  down  West  Street,  for  instance,  all  you  see  is  a big 
bow  now  and  then  heaving  up  above  the  dock-shed  and 
each  looks  much  like  another,  whether  the  ship  be  of 
seven  or  twenty  thousand  tons.  But  here  they  stretch 
out  in  all  their  broadside  length,  with  no  sheds  set 
between,  funnel  behind  funnel,  white  bridge  towering 
behind  white  bridge,  as  far  as  one  can  see,  as  though 
very  kindly  arranged  by  some  municipal  Mr.  Brangwyn. 
And  one  walks  along  this  wonderful  street  of  nations, 
looking  into  holds  and  cabins  and  forecastle  ports  as 
into  so  many  shop  windows.  Here  are  Royal  Mails 
from  England — the  aristocrats  of  these  seas,  which 
swim  up  and  down  across  the  tropics  with  music  and 
folks  dressing  for  dinner;  the  big  German  "Cap”  boats 
— Cap  Ortegal,  Cap  Frio  and  the  rest;  the  French 
and  Spanish  and  Italian  liners  which  bring  down 
champagne  and  aperitifs  and  opera  companies  and 
automobiles,  and  steerages  packed  with  immigrants 
from  Genoa  and  Marseilles  and  Barcelona  and  Bor- 

212 


Cranes  used  in  loading  and  unloading  ships  at  the  Buenos  Aires  docks. 


One  of  the  basins  in  the  Buenos  Aires  docks. 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


deaux.  One  moment  the  electric  cranes  are  swinging 
overhead  steel  bridges  in  bolted  sections  out  of  a New- 
castle freighter  and  you  listen  to  Cockney  and  Scotch, 
the  next  you  step  onto  a little  island,  magically 
detached  from  Italy  or  Spain,  or  into  the  smell  of 
Brazilian  coffee  just  from  Santos,  or  of  a river  boat  full 
of  oranges  just  come  down  the  Parana  from  Paraguay. 

These  oranges  are  from  the  very  trees,  like  enough, 
which  the  Dictator  Lopez  made  his  people  plant  when 
they  were  fighting  the  combined  armies  of  Brazil  and 
Uruguay  and  Argentina.  They  fought  as  though  they 
were  defending  the  sacredest  principle  on  earth  instead 
of  merely  laying  down  their  lives  for  a gifted  young  man 
who  had  a European  education,  a French  mistress  and 
the  idea  that  he  was  another  Napoleon.  For  five  years 
they  fought  until  it  was  almost  literally  true  that  there 
were  no  men  left  in  Paraguay  and  nothing  in  the 
country  but  women  and  children  and  oranges.  The 
women  cultivated  these  to  keep  their  children  alive  and 
it  was  they  and  the  orange  trees  which  saved  Paraguay 
and  put  it  on  its  feet.  At  the  granaries,  taking  in  cat- 
tle or  beef,  are  ships  with  such  names  as  Highland 
Laddie,  Beacon  Grange,  Tremaine,  and  Wistow  Hall — 
you  can  fairly  hear  their  winch  engines  singing— 

“ The  West  Wind  called: — ‘In  squadrons  the  thoughtless  galleons 

fly> 

‘ That  bear  the  wheat  and  cattle  lest  street-bred  people  die 

Here’s  Admiral  Gallendraza  de  Lamouraix,  stout 
Baron  Berger  of  Antwerp,  Jose  Gallart  of  Barcelona 

213 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


with  the  Spanish  arms  on  his  funnel  and  flying  the 
yellow  and  red  of  Spain — ships  and  flags  from  all  the 
seven  seas,  indeed,  except  from  home. 

There  are,  as  I said,  many  other  things.  There  are 
suburbs,  where,  of  a Sunday  morning,  with  bells  ringing 
from  the  little  ivy-covered  English  church  and  little 
girls  tripping  to  Sunday-school  in  their  best  ribbons 
and  freshly  starched  dresses,  you  might  almost  be  in 
England.  It  seems  a long  way  to  Arequipa  and  La 
Paz  and  the  mouldering  old  cathedrals  of  Peru.  One 
may  go  out  to  Hurlingham,  and,  surrounded  by  English- 
speaking  people,  play  tennis  and  golf  and  polo,  even  fol- 
low the  hounds;  or  up  to  Tigre,  on  the  river,  and  sail 
or  paddle  or  watch  an  eight-oared  crew.  There  is  a 
very  superior  Zoo.  A baby  elephant  was  there  when 
I was  in  Buenos  Aires,  and  as  he  was  the  first  elephant 
who  could  claim  to  be  an  Argentine,  he  was  very  im- 
portant indeed.  His  growth  and  behavior  were  com- 
mented on  at  length  in  the  newspapers,  and  every  sunny 
afternoon  you  might  see  the  Hindoo  temple  and  little 
park  in  wThich  he  and  his  parents  lived,  surrounded 
by  critical  loungers  and  children  and  nurses,  with  caps 
and  long  veils  such  as  French  nurses  wear.  As  far  as 
merely  material  things  of  South  American  cities  go, 
Buenos  Aires  gathers  to  itself  most  of  the  superla- 
tives. Lima  is  a little  old  Spanish  town  in  compari- 
son, Rio  Janeiro,  vrith  all  its  beauty,  a city  of  the 
tropics  w’ith  all  that  implies  of  drowsiness  and  lethar- 
gy. Many  little  marks  of  the  great  city  it  has — hurry- 
ing uncurious  cnrwds,  each  unit  knowing  its  own  place 

214 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


and  moving  in  its  orbit;  tired  little  milliner’s  maids 
with  their  hat-boxes ; quiet  regions  of  wealth,  where,  oc- 
casionally, from  mysterious  interiors,  pale  men-servants 
in  livery  emerge  at  the  servants’  entrance  to  blink 
moodily  at  the  bright  sunshine.  There  are  downtown 
restaurants  with  chops  and  steaks  in  the  windows,  be- 
ginning actually  to  have  the  time-worn,  comfortable 
look  and  the  smell  of  chop-houses  at  home.  Even 
the  motormen  look  worried. 

Every  great  city  has,  however,  above  these  common 
phenomena,  a certain  overtone,  generally  caught  by 
outsiders,  often  inaudible  to  its  own  people.  And  the 
Buenos  Aires  that  one  hears  about  in  other  corners  of 
the  world,  from  the  man  one  meets  in  the  steamship 
smoking-room,  the  young  naval  officer  who  touched 
there  on  his  first  foreign  cruise,  is  always  this  town  of 
strident  pleasure,  this  Paris  told  to  look  alive.  Such 
descriptions  may  not  connote  very  profound  nor  ap- 
preciative observation,  but  they  are  true,  as  far  as  they 
go,  to  that  which  specially  differentiates  the  metropolis 
from  other  South  American  capitals.  For  here  is  what 
might  be  were  a million  mixed  Latins  lifted  bodily 
oversea,  and,  retaining  all  their  love  of  pleasure  and 
display,  freed  from  the  intangible  dusty  weights  of  an 
ancient  civilization,  from  the  languors  of  tropical  Rio, 
from  the  isolation  which  has  kept  Lima  a city  of  old 
Spain,  set  down  in  a temperate  climate  and  allowed 
to  build  a town  to  suit  themselves.  The  city  of  Good 
Airs  was  founded  nearly  four  centuries  ago,  but  the 
Buenos  Aires  of  to-day  is  as  new  as  Chicago.  Here, 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


in  the  Avenida  de  Mayo,  is  a Parisian  boulevard,  with 
its  lamps,  trees,  newspapers  kiosks — “Le  Rire”  hang- 
ing beside  “Caras  y Caretas” — but  where  are  the 
boulevardiers  ? Here  is  the  musical  old  tongue  of  Spain, 
but  the  barred  windows  and  fortressed  walls  and  musty 
cathedrals  are  long  since  overgrown  and  forgotten  in  a 
jumble  of  French  facades  and  art  nouveau. 

Of  the  six  million  people  which  Argentina  is  estimated 
to  contain,  probably  half  were  foreign  born.  Society, 
in  the  narrower  sense,  is  supposed  to  be  limited  to  some 
sixty  families,  but  there  is  no  such  aristocracy  of  blood 
as  there  is  in  Spanish  Peru,  no  such  approximation  to 
a national  literature  and  music  as  in  Portuguese  Brazil. 
People  came  to  Argentina  to  make  money  and  they 
made  it,  and  having  done  that  they  flock  to  the  capital 
to  spend  it  as  pleasantly  as  they  can.  Comparatively 
speaking,  they  have  the  air  and  tastes  of  the  new-rich ; 
that  solemn  absorption  in  cutting  a dash  and  those 
rather  ingenuous  barbarisms,  which  the  French  sum 
up  in  their  word  rastaqouere,  are  nowhere  better  il- 
lustrated than  by  the  rich  young  Argentines  who 
spend  their  summers  in  Europe.  It  was  a Frenchman, 
indeed,  who  coined  the  word  rastopolis  to  suggest  to 
his  friends  at  home  his  first  impressions  of  Buenos 
Aires.  There  is  something  almost  hypnotic  in  the 
effect  on  the  Bonarenses  of  such  words  as  gran,  lujo, 
inmenso.  The  races  are  always  that  gran  reunion 
sportiva,  every  bride  of  a well-known  family  is  one  of 
nuestras  bellezas  mas  renombradas;  when  you  go  to  a 
party  you  enter  al  inmenso  hall  and  climb  la  gran 

216 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


escalera  and  your  hostess  is  certain  to  be  one  of  our 
lujosas  senoras. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this  solemn  affectation  and 
display  one  never  quite  misses  feeling  the  great, 
open,  wholesome  pampa  just  beyond  the  city  roofs. 
On  the  way  from  the  bank  to  the  steamship  office, 
only  a step  from  the  Stock  Exchange,  you  walk 
through  Tattersall’s,  between  rows  of  Durhams  and 
Herefords,  with  pedigrees  and  prizes  hanging  on 
the  doors  of  their  pens,  and  Cockney  grooms  rubbing 
them  down  and  hissing  between  their  teeth.  In  more 
tropical  South  America,  milk,  unless  safely  boiled,  is 
almost  unknown ; here,  tiled  dairy  lunches  are  scattered 
all  over  town  and  people  drop  in  for  the  little  caramel 
slabs  of  dulce  de  leche,  just  as  they  spend  pennies  for 
slot-machine  chocolate  at  home.  There  is  always  good 
roast  beef  and  steaks,  good  cream  and  butter,  and  the 
pampa  partridges  are  as  cheap  as  our  ordinary  chicken. 
In  the  busy  street  with  its  pastry  shops  and  pelu- 
querias  you  can  almost  imagine  that  you  smell  the  wind 
blowing  in  from  the  open  range ; beyond  the  smoke  and 
glare  of  the  music  hall,  freshening  and  transmuting  it, 
lies  always  the  vision  of  the  pampa,  endlessly  rich,  moist, 
fertile,  immeasurable.  And  all  these  lacquered  papas 
and  richly  upholstered  mammas  become  rather  whole- 
some farmers  or  shop-keepers,  who  have  made  a quick 
clean-up  of  it  and  are  now  having  their  holiday.  At 
their  best,  they  are  really  quite  splendid,  at  the  worst 
theirs  is  an  amusing  and  rather  exhilarating  vulgarity. 

Nothing  so  well  gathers  up  and  visualizes  the  vari- 

217 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


ous  ingredients  of  this  individuality  as  the  Jockey  Club 
races  and  the  carriage  parade  in  the  Avenida  Sarmiento 
afterward  on  a bright  Sunday  afternoon.  It  is  in 
character  that  the  Jockey  Club  should  be  the  most 
widely  known  social  organization  of  Buenos  Aires. 
The  exclusive  club  is,  of  course,  the  “Circulo  de  Armas,” 
or  “Circulo,”  as  it  is  generally  called.  Only  native 
Argentinians  may  belong  to  it  and  there,  to-day,  is 
effected  the  political  manoeuvre  of  which  you  read  in 
papers  next  week  or  next  month.  The  Jockey  Club  is 
where  the  stranger  is  put  up,  its  marble  entrance  stairs 
and  statue  of  Diana,  its  luxurious  baths  and  fencing 
rooms  are  town  show-places,  and  when  Mr.  Root  came, 
for  instance,  it  was  the  Jockey  Club  and  not  a club 
with  a commercial  or  political  name  which  naturally 
prepared  to  give  the  great  ball.  Its  race-track  is  in 
Palermo,  at  the  end  of  the  city’s  politest  avenue,  and 
thither  the  city  pours  on  a great  day,  much  as  a purely 
Spanish  population  would  pour  toward  a bull  fight. 

. . . “From  an  early  hour  the  Avenida  Alvear  pre- 
sented a more  than  ever  animated  overture  to  that 
great  spectacle  which  unrolled  itself  in  the  Hipo- 
dromo.  In  the  brilliant  sun  of  an  afternoon,  golden 
and  gentle,  a torrent  of  vehicles,  interminable,  rum- 
bling, discharged  themselves  into  the  course,  covering 
the  Avenue  and  all  its  length  with  movement,  reflec- 
tions anti  noise.  A dull,  incessant  rumbling — broken 
only  by  the  crack  of  whips  and  the  hoarse  and  nervous 
snorting  of  automobiles,  ravenously  pushing  their  im- 
pertinent snouts  in  between  the  multitude  of  carriages 

21J» 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

— vibrated  for  hours  under  a cloud  of  dust  raised  and 
spread  by  the  steady  stream  of  vehicles  which,  fighting 
for  their  places,  arrived  and  spread  out  in  kaleidoscopic 
movement,  full  of  vibrations  and  prismatic  reflections” 
— thus  the  gifted  cronista  of  “El  Diario,”  in  a rolling 
Castilian  which  these  jerky  words  can  but  faintly  sug- 
gest, the  day  Mr.  Root  was  there.  I watched  the  pro- 
cession that  afternoon,  at  the  turn  where  the  Avenida 
Alvear  curves  into  the  Recoleta,  until  the  lancers  and 
cuirassiers  came  galloping  down  the  asphalt  clearing 
the  way.  They  poured  by  at  a quick  trot — innumer- 
able young  men  twirling  upward  the  eternal  black 
moustache ; victorias  with  silver  bells,  fighting  the  way 
with  rickety  old  hired  hacks  bearing  tourists  or  on- 
shore sailors;  many  family  chariots — Papa  and  Mam- 
ma, overdressed  and  rather  pudgy,  facing  them,  the 
two  little  girls,  sitting  very  straight,  like  expensive 
dolls,  their  little  legs,  bare  above  half-stockings, 
doubled  under  the  seat  as  stiff  as  any  coachman’s. 

. . . “All  Buenos  Aires  poured  toward  the  Hipo- 
dromo.  Above  this  swift  and  restless  caravan  the  spirit 
of  the  fiesta  floated  and  laughed  in  an  atmosphere  gilded 
by  the  autumnal  sun.  It  was  a lavish  spectacle  of  con- 
tentment, of  spirits  absorbed  for  the  moment  in  the 
coming  sport — regulars  eager  to  try  their  palpitos, 
simple-minded  folk  who  carried  the  “sure-thing” 
safely  tucked  away  in  their  pockets.  Dreamers  of  for- 
tune, these,  lulled  by  the  music  of  the  trot.  And  out  of 
the  vague  intonation  of  all  this  multitude  there  came, 
here  and  there,  like  a breath  of  fresh  air,  the  glimpses 

219 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


fluttering,  elegant,  of  luxurious  carriages  carrying 
radiantly  dressed  ladies,  the  luminous  note  of  undu- 
lating ribbons  and  plumes  standing  out  like  a spring- 
like, feminine  bouquet  against  the  black  mass  of  those 
absorbed  by  the  passion  of  sport.  . . . ” 

During  the  races  the  carriages  lined  up  along  the 
curb  facing  the  middle  of  the  street,  for  blocks,  with 
mounted  police  at  intervals  like  cavalry  officers.  The 
instant  the  races  were  over  this  stiff  line  kaleidoscoped 
again  and  everybody  pelted  away  toward  the  Avenida 
Sarmiento,  there  to  file  round  and  round  between  the 
palms  and  indulge  that  passion  for  staring  which  is 
one  of  the  common  heritages  of  city  crowds.  At  rare 
intervals  in  this  “Corso”  passed  a family — in  black, 
generally, — with  faces  fashioned  after  the  same  patri- 
cian model,  marvellously  white  skin,  vivid  black  hair, 
delicate  eyebrows  and  great  dark  eyes.  There  is  an 
expression  in  such  faces  which  reminds  one  grotesquely 
of  a bloodhound,  with  his  dome-shaped  head  and 
drooping  melancholy  eyes;  sad  faces — even  the  little 
girls  with  their  quaintly  barbarous  tiny  diamond  ear- 
rings and  the  little  boys  in  patent-leather  sailor  hats — 
as  if  sorrowing,  perhaps,  for  the  forgotten  days  of 
Spain.  More  often,  however,  it  was  but  a procession 
of  expensive  human  upholstery — smug  fathers,  con- 
tented-looking matrons,  like  Italian  orange-women 
fallen  into  a fortune,  crowding  four  lines  deep,  in  a 
sort  of  splendid  chaos.  And  the  young  engineer  in 
from  the  “bush”  and  the  steamship’s  under-officers, 
roaming  hungrily  about  in  their  hired  victorias,  drink 

220 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


this  in,  too,  and  tell  you  afterward — and  with  some 
truth — that  there  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  world. 

Before  Buenos  Aires  covered  as  much  ground  as  it 
does  to-day,  the  Calle  Florida,  now  the  polite  down- 
town shopping  street,  was  the  scene  of  the  carriage 
parade  and,  with  characteristic  conservatism — as  if  in 
New  York,  carriages  should  go  down  from  Central 
Park  at  twilight  and  file  solemnly  through  Twenty- 
third  Street — the  parade  ends  in  this  business  street. 
It  is  only  wide  enough  for  two  rows  of  carriages, 
so  close  together  that  the  occupants  might  almost 
shake  hands  with  one  another  or  with  the  spectators 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  when  festooned  with  lights,  as  it 
was  when  Mr.  Root  was  there,  it  glares  and  sparkles 
like  a ball-room.  And  in  this  glare,  from  the  lights 
overhead,  from  milliners’  and  pastry  cooks’  windows, 
the  strange  procession  flows  jerkily  by — powdery  old 
ladies,  blinking  in  the  shelter  of  their  broughams, 
tourists  and  sailors,  quiet  mothers  with  their  children, 
the  chanteuses  from  the  music  halls  lolling  back  in  their 
victorias  and  lavishing  smiles.  The  young  men  smile 
back,  with  cynical  good  humor,  twirling  their  black 
moustaches  the  while,  and  the  line  flows  on  past  the 
Grand  Hotel,  the  Jockey  Club,  past  the  “Sportsman” 
and  into  the  Avenida  again,  round  and  round,  till 
dinner  time  comes,  and  it  melts  away. 

This  witching  hour  having  arrived,  what  vague  pre- 
monitory rays  of  the  evening’s  possibilities  begin  to 
flash  up  from  behind  the  imminent  horizon  of  food? 
Imagine  yourself  stepping  to  the  newspaper  kiosk  at 

221 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

the  corner  of  Florida  Street  and  the  Avenida  and 
there  running  an  eye  down  the  column  of  theatre 
announcements.  First  of  all,  of  course,  is  the  opera, 
which  means,  socially,  just  what  it  does  at  home,  ex- 
cept that  “grand”  opera,  comes  in  the  south-equatorial 
winter — that  is  to  say,  in  July  and  August.  German 
music  is  not  much  enjoyed,  but  all  the  familiar  Italian 
and  French  operas  are  given,  and  the  Italian  companies 
generally  contain  at  least  a few  thrifty  singers  who  are 
to  be  heard  in  New  York  a few  months  later  on.  The 
house  is  not  so  large  as  our  Metropolitan,  and  the 
spectacle  not  so  much  “grand”  as  it  is  pretty — linda 
and  preciosa,  as  the  South  Americans  say.  Every- 
thing, even  to  the  scene-shifters  in  their  white 
stockings  and  powdered  wigs,  seems  arranged  to 
make  a neat  and  well-ordered  picture.  The  two  lower 
tiers  of  boxes  which  enclose  the  parquet  in  *he  conti- 
nental fashion,  leaving  no  place  for  “standees,”  are 
adorned  by  the  members  of  the  Families.  The  third 
tier  is  one  black-and-w’hite  horseshoe  of  men;  the 
fourth,  w7omen,  most  of  whom  are  in  street  dress,  and 
in  the  balcony  above  are  herded  the  encore  fiends, 
hissers  and  general  trouble-makers.  The  boxes  of  the 
two  lower  tiers  are  shallower  and  more  open  than  those 
in  the  Metropolitan  and  the  ladies  who  seem  younger 
than  our  veteran  houris,  sit  close  together,  much  as 
though  they  wTere  in  the  front  row  of  the  balcony. 
All  seem  to  be  acquainted,  the  red  and  gold  of  the 
walls  enriches  this  vivacious  horseshoe  like  the  hang- 
ings behind  a portrait,  and  there  is  about  the  whole 

222 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

something  at  once  brilliant  and  all-in-the-family  which 
is  charming  to  see. 

After  the  opera  season  is  over,  and  often  during  it, 
less  ambitious  opera  may  be  heard  at  various  theatres. 
The  San  Martin,  for  instance,  announces  the  opening 
to-morrow  evening  of  its  season  of  French  opera- 
comique;  in  another  fortnight  the  Teatro  Marconi  will 
have  an  Italian  company  in  a repertoire  of  thirty 
operas;  the  Opera  itself  is  presently  to  be  turned 
over  to  a George  Edwardes’  company  for  twenty  per- 
formances of  musical  comedy.  Here,  too,  on  Sunday 
evening  next,  the  Italian  actress,  Tina  di  Lorenzo, 
begins  her  Buenos  Aires  engagement  with  “Magda.” 
To-night,  at  the  Odeon  Mme.  Suzanne  Despres,  with 
Mme.  Larparcerie-Richepin  and  a Paris  company  play 
“Denise”;  at  the  Politeama  Argentino — a sort  of 
Hammerstein’s — Fregoli,  the  lightning-change  man, 
gives  his  farewell  performance;  at  the  Teatro  Nacio- 
nal,  Sehor  Podesta’s  Argentine  company  presents  sev- 
eral one-act  Argentine  plays,  and  so  on  down  a list  in- 
cluding Italian  farce,  Spanish  zarzuelas,  a boy  musical- 
prodigy  at  Prince  George’s  Hall,  and  even  an  indoor 
circus  at  the  Coliseo  Argentino  of  Mr.  Frank  Brown. 
A great  fuss  is  being  made,  you  will  observe,  over  the 
coming  visit  of  Otero. 

This  interesting  lady  had  just  sailed  when  I was  in 
Buenos  Aires,  and  on  all  the  bill-boards,  in  gigantic 
handwriting,  was  scrawled  the  impressive  sentence: 
“ Je  suis  partie  avec  ma  compagnie — Otero.”  When  her 
ship  touched  at  Teneriffe  this  was  changed  to  “J’arri- 

223 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


verai  le  vingt-trois — Otero,”  and  when  she  reached 
Montevideo,  a night’s  journey  from  the  metropolis,  all 
the  blank  walls  and  bill-boards  bore,  above  her  signa- 
ture, the  single  orphic  word  “ Demain!”  I was  told 
afterward  that  in  spite  of  her  inspired  press-agent 
la  bella  Otero’s  visit  fell  quite  flat. 

It  is,  indeed,  not  a public  altogether  easy  to  please. 
It  is  satisfied  with  crude  “productions,”  differing  from 
what  is  demanded  in  London  or  New  York  just  as  a 
“Merchant  of  Venice”  put  on  by  Novelli  differs  from 
that  put  on  by  Mr.  Sothern.  But  they  have  a critical 
instinct  common  to  Latins,  the  great  continental  artists 
are  as  likely  to  visit  the  Argentine  as  the  States,  and 
many  who  do  not  come  to  America  at  all,  but  are  of 
all  but  the  first  rank  in  their  own  country,  visit 
Buenos  Aires  regularly  and  present  European  suc- 
cesses long  before  they  are  seen  in  New  York. 

Here  in  Buenos  Aires,  South  American  literariness  is 
stiffened  and  sharpened  by  a modern  tendency  toward 
realism  and  the  scientific  point  of  view.  It  shows  in 
criticism  as  well  as  in  political  editorials.  “When” — to 
quote  a typical  comment  which  I ran  across  in  the 
“Nacion”  one  day — “the  author  busies  himself  in  con- 
structing artificial  decorations,  fanciful  and  false, 
whose  unreality  no  one  can  explain,  it  is  impossible  to 
build  anything  solid  and  durable.  You  will  have 
precious  miniatures,  painstaking  engravings  which  will 
delight  the  quintessential  taste  of  dilettantes,  but  never 
those  great  pieces  of  work  which  compel  universal 
admiration.  In  the  literature  of  our  country  there  are 

224 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


too  many  of  these  works  of  ephemeral  brilliance  and 
circumscribed  merit.  And  we  shall  presently  demon- 
strate why  the  time  has  come.  ...” 

After  encountering  a point  of  view  so  sane  and  un- 
Caribbean,  it  was  especially  interesting  to  see  a play 
written  by  a South  American  on  a South  American 
subject — the  four-act  drama  “Chacabuco”  by  Alberto 
del  Solar — and  to  read  what  the  reviewers  said  about 
it  the  next  morning.  Chacabuco  was  a decisive  battle 
in  the  war  for  independence.  It  was  not  a very  good 
play,  but  no  worse  than  our  own  military  dramas, 
and  by  changing  Chacabuco  to  Lexington  and  the 
Andes  to  New  England  farms,  it  could,  I dare  say, 
be  transferred  to  Broadway  with  average  success. 
The  curtain  rose  on  an  Andean  camp,  the  snowy  Cor- 
dilleras in  the  background,  to  the  right,  soldiers  sitting 
round  a fire,  to  the  left  women  working  over  clothing 
and  bandages  and  a militant  priest  hammering  on  an 
anvil.  There  were  bugle  calls  and  troops  marching 
across  the  back-drop,  and  the  scene  ended  with  a really 
admirable  illusion  of  a vista  of  lighted  tents.  In  the 
second  and  third  acts,  showing  interiors  in  Santiago, 
the  wicked  Royalist  general  discovered  papers  show- 
ing that  the  hero  and  the  heroine  had  been  communi- 
cating with  General  San  Martin  and  he  threw  the  two 
into  prison.  A word  from  the  lady  would  have  set 
them  both  free,  but  she  behaved  as  a heroine  should, 
and  in  the  last  act  Chacabuco  was  fought  off  stage  and 
the  patriot  army  rushed  in  just  in  time  to  rescue  the 
two  lovers,  while  the  sun  of  a new  day  rose  jerkily  up 

225 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


the  back-drop.  There  were  clouds,  too,  breaking 
away  one  after  another,  and  even  a tiny,  marching 
army  silhouetted  against  them  and  moving  across  the 
horizon  like  a child’s  train  of  cars.  The  piece  was  such 
a straight  appeal  to  gallery  patriotism  that  the  Latin- 
American  of  our  popular  misconception  would  have 
swallowed  it  with  unthinking  avidity,  yet  it  was  not 
so  received  either  by  the  audience  or  the  critics  next 
day. 

“According,”  said  the  “Prensa,”  “ to  the  assertions 
of  the  author  and  the  programme,  this  is  an  historical 
drama.  Properly  speaking,  it  is  a love  story,  which 
unrolls  across  a long  series  of  episodes  of  the  campaign 
fought  by  the  arm)’  of  the  Andes.  Chacabuco  suggests 
mighty  forces.  It  is  a focus  of  martial  glory  which  is 
lit  from  afar,  from  very  far,  by  the  principal  episode  of 
this  drama  of  Del  Solar.  It  would  be  very  hard  to  tell 
the  story,  following  all  the  threads  from  the  first  to  the 
fourth  act,  because  the  anecdote,  the  basis  of  any  dra- 
matic work,  has  been  sacrificed  to  the  exigencies  of  a 
brilliant  mise  en  scene.  As  an  historical  drama,  indeed, 
it  doesn’t  exist,  and  the  solemn  matron  of  history  has 
only  lent  a few  trifles  of  her  household  furniture  which 
are  juggled  into  those  polychromatic  'effects’  which 
satisfy  the  easy  public.  . . . All  of  the  first  act,  with 
the  exception  of  the  costumes  and  scenery,  was  a la- 
mentable reduction  of  men  and  things.  The  appear- 
ance of  San  Martin  marching  with  a regular  step  as  if 
he  were  behind  a hearse  had  no  logical  explanation  nor 
truth  to  history.  Frankly,  it  was  a scene  of  mario- 

226 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


nettes,  unnecessary  to  the  principal  anecdote,  which, 
reduced  to  its  proper  proportions  and  worked  out, 
might,  with  its  valiant,  persecuted  hero  and  its  Portia- 
like  heroine,  serve  as  the  basis  of  a work  of  poetry  and 
real  dramatic  dignity.  ...” 

It  was  on  one  of  these  evenings — the  Hon.  Elihu 
Root  having  arrived  that  afternoon — that  a perform- 
ance, far  more  brilliant  than  those  of  the  theatre,  was 
played  in  the  streets  by  the  Bonarenses  themselves. 

What  that  splendid  junket  meant  to  South  Americans 
— not  to  countries  in  the  abstract  but  the  men  inside 
the  dress  uniforms  and  under  the  top  hats,  and  to  their 
wives  and  sisters  and  daughters — what  an  all-pervading 
thing  it  was  for  weeks  and  weeks — I doubt  if  even  Mr. 
Root  himself  could  appreciate,  wafted,  as  he  was,  from 
capital  to  capital,  with  bands  playing,  lancers  clatter- 
ing in  front  and  behind  down  endless  vistas  of  oratory 
and  champagne.  It  was  those  of  us  who  happened  to 
be  travelling  in  the  other  direction,  who  saw  this  side, 
who  started  where  he  was  to  finish,  and  all  the  way 
along  saw,  so  to  speak,  the  furniture  being  dusted  and 
the  pies  going  into  the  oven,  and  heard  the  rumble 
of  his  coming  from  afar.  What  streets  were  paved, 
buildings  and  ball  dresses  rushed  to  completion;  what 
armies  of  dress-makers,  livery  men,  florists,  hair- 
dressers, and  pastry  cooks  might  date  their  calendars 
from  the  year  El  Ministro  norte  americano  came  to 
town! 

Many  weeks  before  Mr.  Root  was  expected  in  Peru 
or  Colombia,  in  the  littlest  papers  of  little  coast  towns 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


where  the  steamers  stop  to  lighter  a few  tons  of  freight, 
quaint  sheets  with  their  few  sentences  of  cable  news, 
each  artfully  distributed  under  a great  black  head 
spelling  the  name  of  the  country  from  which  it  came — 
Inglaterra,  Rusia,  Estados  Unidos,  Italia  and  the  rest — 
you  could  find  each  day  three  things.  There  was  a 
paragraph  about  the  Duma — for  all  that  it  gave  of  the 
conditions  in  Russia  that  ill-starred  body  might  have 
been  some  strange  bird;  one  equally  vague,  about  the 
carnes  conservadas  and  the  troubles  at  home  over  pre- 
served beef,  and  then,  always,  the  last  word  about  Mr. 
Root.  Who  would  accompany  him,  who  would  meet 
him,  when  he  would  probably  come;  new  furniture 
from  France  had  been  ordered  for  his  quarters  in  Rio, 
the  Minister  of  So-and-So  was  planning  a grand  ball 
in  his  honor  in  Santiago — down  through  Mexico  on  the 
Galveston  cable,  up  from  Chile  and  Argentina,  half- 
way round  the  world  by  way  of  Europe,  these  little  bits 
of  gossip  came  sometimes  almost  the  only  whisper  from 
the  big  outside  world. 

In  Santiago,  more  than  a month  before  Mr.  Root 
was  expected,  one  of  the  afternoon  papers  bore  on  its 
front  page  this  advertisement : 

CON  OCASION  DEL 

GRAN  BAILE  EN  HONOR  DE  MR.  ROOT 
A las  distinguidas  senoras  y senoritas  de  Santiago 

And  the  distinguished  matrons  and  young  ladies 
were  then  advised  that  at  a certain  shop  in  Balmaceda 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


Street  were  laces — real  Brussels,  point,  duchess,  prin- 
cess, etc.,  acquired  under  conditions  marvellously  ad- 
vantageous, and  now  to  be  disposed  of  at  prices  cheap 
beyond  belief — “ inverisimilmente  bajos!” 

A fortnight  later,  in  Buenos  Aires,  they  were  worry- 
ing lest — even  though  the  hair-dressers  desired  by  the 
elite  worked  all  the  day  preceding — half  the  ladies 
should  not  reach  the  costume  ball  before  four  o’clock 
in  the  morning.  Furniture  and  hardware  men  had 
their  auctions,  remates  YanJcis;  haberdashers,  helped 
by  the  fact  that  laundries  and  dry-cleaners’  shops 
would  be  closed  during  the  three  days’  fiesta,  stripped 
their  shelves  of  shirts  and  gloves.  The  bills  brought 
in  to  the  various  governments,  the  rivers  of  free  cham- 
pagne, the  handful  of  cigars  intended  to  blaze  on  the 
altar  of  international  brotherhood  slipped  into  inside 
pockets  in  the  quiet  of  the  supper-room  while  the 
waiters  looked  the  other  way  and  the  strains  of 
“Quand  l’Amour  Meurt”  sighed  through  the  palms! 
But  enough — let’s  away  quickly,  ere  we’re  below  stairs 
with  the  muckrakers  who  have  not  yet  descended  on 
this  happy  continent. 

Mr.  Root  came  to  Buenos  Aires  from  Montevideo, 
which  is  the  capital  of  Uruguay,  and  just  across  the 
Plata  River — at  this  point  of  its  huge  mouth  a whole 
night’s  journey  away.  Montevideo  might  almost  be 
called  the  Brooklyn  of  Buenos  Aires.  It  has  three  hun- 
dred thousand  people  and  the  prettiest  women  prob- 
ably in  all  South  America,  but  it  is  a drowsy,  old- 
fashioned  place,  overshadowed  by  the  bigger,  showier, 

229 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


metropolis.  Montevideo  took  its  distinguished  guest 
very  seriously — with,  indeed,  an  almost  touching 
earnestness  and  awe.  For  days  before  he  came  you 
could  read,  posted  by  the  committee  of  reception  on 
fences  and  bare  walls  with  all  the  paternal  zeal  of  a 
monarch  exhorting  his  subjects,  the  following: 

EXHORTACION  AL  PUEBLO 

The  Committee  of  Reception  to  Mr.  Elihu  Root  exhorts  the 
people  of  Montevideo  to  embody  in  the  most  solemn  and  eloquent 
manner  possible  their  part  of  the  tribute  of  homage  which  will 
be  paid  to  this  eminent  statesman  at  the  time  of  his  arrival  in 
our  country. 

Gracefully  to  receive  such  an  illustrious  guest  it  is  necessary 
to  strike  a lofty  note  of  urbanity,  for  which,  the  Committee  is 
persuaded,  it  may  safely  rely  on  the  people  of  Montevideo. 

If  such  behavior  constitutes  in  itself  an  expressive  demonstra- 
tion of  culture,  it  ought  to  manifest  itself  with  special  force 
when  our  guest  is  one  who  not  only  represents  a great  nation, 
which,  etc.,  etc. 

“If  we  are  not  bound  by  the  affinities  of  race  and 
traditions  to  the  republic  of  the  North,”  the  proc- 
lamation continued,  in  the  equivalent  of  about  half 
a column  of  one  of  our  newspapers,  “if  our  pasts  have 
not  been  common  nor  our  traditions  and  idiosyncrasies 
the  same,  the  time  has  now  come  to  join  forces  for 
the  common  good,  to  make  the  sentiment  of  fra- 
ternity the  alma  mater  of  our  ideals,  to  harmonize  the 
national  spirit  of  each  of  the  countries  with  the 
American  spirit  of  all,  and  thus,”  etc.,  etc.  And  at 

230 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


the  end  the  populace  was  invited  to  be  at  the  dock 
when  Mr.  Root  arrived,  to  help  in  welcoming  him. 

“I  confess,”  said  the  correspondent  of  “El  Dia,” 
writing  from  Rio  the  night  that  Mr.  Root  made  his 
speech  to  the  conference,  “that  to-night,  for  the  first 
time,  I have  felt  germinating  in  my  spirit  a new 
pride:  that  of  being  American.  And  the  conscious- 
ness of  superiority,  of  dignity  and  of  strength,  which 
comes  from  this  sentiment  and  which  constitutes  one 
of  the  greatest  pleasures  [“ una  de  las  mas  grandes 
voluptuosidades  ’ ’]  that  I have  ever  experienced,  is  due 
to  the  words  of  Mr.  Root.  . . .” 

Already  the  papers  of  Montevideo — huge  sheets  like 
blankets  when  unfolded — were  filled  with  stories  of 
Root  and  Roosevelt  and  the  States.  Our  politics,  the 
natural  history  of  the  trusts,  and  our  literature  were 
described  and  interpreted.  One  read  with  interest  of 
“Enriqueta  Beecher  Stowe”  and  “La  cabana  del  tlo 
Tom,”  of  Prescott  and  Poe  and  Irving,  Enrique  Wads- 
worth Longfellow  and  Guillermo  Cullen  Dregant!  “In 
contrast  to  what  one  meets  with  in  European  litera- 
ture,” said  the  kindly  reviewer,  “where  all  is  pessimism, 
disillusionment,  and  sorrow,  the  literature  of  North 
America  is  alive  with  optimism;  it  views  life  good- 
naturedly,  tenderly,  affectionately,  as  if  it  had  confi- 
dence in  the  future  of  humanity.  Its  authors,  with 
rare  exceptions,  are  not  bizarre  and  violent,  they  pos- 
sess the  rare  virtue  of  giving  delight,  of  soothing  and 
comforting  the  mind  of  the  reader— which  is,  with- 
out doubt,  a sign  of  mental  superiority.” 

231 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


The  biographies  of  Mr.  Root,  El  gran  canciller 
amerieano,  exhibited  him  and  his  family  on  foot  and 
on  horseback,  even  contained  those  inevitable  apoc- 
ryphal anecdotes  generally  found  in  obituaries  of  the 
great.  One  was  told  how  Root  had  left  home  for  New 
York  to  seek  his  fortune  as  a lawyer.  His  father  desired 
to  give  him  letters  of  introduction  to  influential  friends, 
but  the  young  man  spurned  them.  “I’ll  look  out  for 
myself,”  said  he.  “I’ll  make  my  own  friends  without 
help  from  my  family.  I want  to  find  out  whether  I’m 
a man  or  a mouse ! ” Editorials  headed  simply  ‘ ‘ Homer 
naje ” acclaimed  El  Ideal  Americano,  the  President’s 
opinion  of  “the  most  skilful  man  I have  knowm  in  the 
affairs  of  our  Government”  was  quoted,  and  four  days 
later,  after  a continuous  whirl  of  processions,  gala  per- 
formances, banquets,  garden  parties,  and  oratory,  he 
and  his  party  sailed  away  for  Buenos  Aires,  loaded 
down  with  gifts  as  though  they  had  been  visiting  the 
Sultan  of  Sulu. 

In  the  height  of  the  festivities  a staid  old  citizen  of 
Montevideo,  after  explaining  that  his  father  was  a 
North  American  and  that  he  was  born  in  Baltimore, 
put  both  hands  over  his  heart  and  assured  me  that  if 
I were  to  perform  a surgical  operation  on  that  organ, 
I would  find  one-half  of  it  beating  for  Uruguay  and  the 
other  for  the  States.  At  the  time  it  seemed  quite  a 
normal  and  ordinary  thing  to  say.  Everybody  in  Mon- 
tevideo seemed  to  feel  just  that  way. 

If  Montevideo  represented,  in  a way,  the  old  Latin 
America,  and  received  Mr.  Root  with  all  the  solemn 

232 


The  Avenida  de  Mayo,  Buenos  Aires. 


in  iront  of  the  cathedral  during  Mr. 
Root’s  visit  to  Buenos  Aires. 


The  Calle  Piedad,  Buenos  Aires. 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


homage  and  self-effacement  which  the  master  of  some 
antique  hacienda  might  show  toward  the  guest  who 
chanced  to  penetrate  his  isolation,  Buenos  Aires  stood 
for  the  new  South  America,  and  welcomed  Mr.  Root 
as  any  great  city  might — splendidly  and  lavishly,  of 
course,  but  at  the  same  time  with  cheerful  self-confi- 
dence, not  untinged  here  and  there  with  good-natured 
raillery  and  fun.  The  only  thing  that  Buenos  Aires 
worried  about  was  to  make  Rio’s  celebration  look 
small,  and  once  the  plans  were  made  and  appropria- 
tions arranged,  the  city — vividly  convinced  of  its  su- 
premacy— awaited  complacently  to  see  and  be  seen. 
There  was  no  solicitude  about  “una  nota  elevada  de 
urbanidad,,>  nor  “una  expresiva  demostracion  de  cul- 
tura ”;  that  was  left  to  the  bigwigs  on  the  reception 
committees,  who  were  expected  to  look  out  for  all 
such  things.  The  populace  looked  on,  commenting 
good-humoredly. 

“Within  a few  days,”  said  “Gil  Bias,”  “we  shall 
have  among  us  the  right  arm  of  Mr.  Roosevelt” — 
alongside  was  a cartoon  of  the  President,  waving  his 
arm  in  a speech,  while  from  the  right  cuff,  instead  of  a 
clenched  fist,  protruded  the  compact  head  and  dispas- 
sionate eye  of  our  Secretary  of  State — “none  other 
than  Mr.  Root,  Secretary  of  State,  in  the  formidable 
land  of  trusts,  multi-millionaires,  and  sausages.  The 
illustrious  Minister  will  be  banqueted,  acclaimed, 
orated  at  and  tired  out,  all  in  four  days.  In  four  days 
the  most  fruitless  of  diplomacies  will  cost  us  thousands 
of  pesos  with  which  we  might  do  many  fine  things,  as, 

233 


T PI  E OTHER  AMERICANS 


for  example,  pay  the  county  school-teachers,  build 
lodging  houses  for  working  men,  pave  streets,  make 
sanitary  the  lands  along  the  harbor.” 

There  were  burlesque  accounts  of  the  reception  of 
Mr.  Root,  in  which  the  vanities  of  the  local  celebrities, 
and  Mr.  Root’s  own  reputation  as  a man  of  few  words 
and  intense  practicality  were  smiled  at. 

“When  they  presented  Belisario  Roldan  they  told 
Mr.  Root  that  he  was  the  best  orator  in  the  Republic. 

“'Words/  replied  Root.  ‘Breath  of  the  wind — 
pampero .’ 

“‘He  has  the  voice  of  gold,’  added  the  introducer. 

“‘Gold?’  said  Root.  ‘Gold?  Good  metal!  Good 
value,  but  then,  paper  money  is  all  right,  too.’ 

“And  he  remained  quite  tranquil  until  Diaz  Romero 
was  presented. 

“‘The  Mercury  of  America/  said  the  Master  of 
Ceremonies. 

“‘Thank  you/  said  Root. 

“‘Don’t  mention  it/  replied  the  other. 

“.  . .At  three  minutes  after  eleven  the  Minister  of 
Marine  and  Foreign  Relations  arrived.  He  saluted  and 
said:  ‘God  save  Mr.  Roosevelt.’  Mr.  Root  answered: 
‘Thank  you.’  The  Minister  continued : ‘Have  you  my 
book?’  and  Mr.  Root  responded:  ‘ Si,  serior,  tengo  su 
libro  de  usted’  [“Yes,  sir,  I have  your  book”].  The 
Minister  then  asked:  ‘Have  you  your  table?’  1 Tengo 
mi  mesa'  [“I  have  my  table”].  And  everybody  was 
quite  contented  at  having  been  able  to  address  him  in 
English.” 


234 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


It  rained  the  night  before  Mr.  Root  was  expected 
and  when  the  morning  crept  in  it  was  still  raining,  the 
cold  gusty  temporal  of  the  Argentine  winter.  The  blue 
and  white  of  the  Argentine  and  our  own  colors  had 
run  together,  the  banners  whipped  and  dripped  like 
washing  on  the  line.  It  took  one  back  to  New  York 
to  see  the  crowd  go  down  the  bay:  a white  Coney 
Island  excursion  steamer  bearing  what  passed  for  the 
American  colony;  another,  a free  lance,  careening  in 
its  wake;  a launch  filled  with  young  men  in  oilskins 
and  flying  the  flags  of  all  the  American  colleges — 
young  Argentines,  who  had  been  educated  in  the 
States.  They  looked  exactly  as  though  they  had  just 
come  up  the  Sound  to  New  London.  There  was  even 
a newspaper  tug  puffing  about  importantly  with  a big 
red  banner,  “La  Razon — Diario  de  la  Tarde” — which, 
as  “La  Razon”  was  one  of  the  littlest  papers  in  town, 
seemed  an  eminently  sporting  thing  to  do. 

The  Argentine  cruiser  which  brought  Mr.  Root  from 
Montevideo  appeared  presently  through  the  mist,  and 
the  fleet  of  welcomers  drew  near  till  we  could  see  Mr. 
Root  and  hear  the  constant  banging  of  the  cruiser’s 
band  coming  across  the  water.  Then  our  band  struck 
up  “The  Star-Spangled  Banner” — only  one  who  had 
had  some  experience  with  that  curious  national  air  as 
played  by  a picked-up  Latin- American  band  would 
have  recognized  it,  but  Mr.  Root  had  had  that  ex- 
perience, and  he  stepped  close  to  the  rail  and  stood 
with  his  hat  over  his  heart  until  the  song  was 
done.  Then  there  was  a rather  awkward  pause.  There 

235 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


was  Mr.  Root;  here  was  a boatful  of  English-speaking 
people;  only  a stone’s  throw  of  water  between,  yet 
what  to  do?  Meanwhile,  the  Argentine  Alumni’s 
launch  was  getting  all  the  attention  by  steaming  close 
to  the  cruiser  and  playing  Mr.  Root’s  college  hymn. 
It  was  at  this  crucial  juncture  that  the  Impossible 
Person  in  the  shabby  top  hat  perched  up  somewhere 
near  the  walking-beam  roared  out  “What’s  the  matter 
with  Root?”  Every  one — though  extremely  embar- 
rassed at  this  presumption — gave  the  usual  cry  and 
the  Impossible  Person,  receiving  some  encouragement 
at  last,  at  once  demanded  who  was  all  right,  and 
without  waiting  for  a reply  spelled  out  the  words 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs — “R-O-O-T — Root!”  Some- 
thing like  the  shadow  of  a smile  was  seen  to  flicker 
across  the  face  of  the  Secretary  of  State,  and  it  sud- 
denly occurred  to  every  one  that,  possibly,  after  weeks 
of  rhetorical  compliment  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand, this  unmistakably  American  greeting — the  first 
he  had  received  from  the  city  he  was  about  to  enter — 
wTas  the  finest  and  most  eloquent  thing  that  could  have 
been  done.  The  I.  P.  seeing  these  feelings  betrayed 
even  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  had  glowered  upon  him 
before,  felt  himself  coming  into  his  own.  “He  saw 
me,”  he  remarked  out  of  the  side  of  his  mouth,  taking 
off  his  top  hat  and  mopping  his  florid  brow. 

The  cruiser  steamed  slowly  into  the  docks  where, 
one  behind  the  other,  ships  from  all  the  world  lay 
moored,  covered  with  display  flags.  There  were  cheers, 
the  crowd  swrarmed  toward  the  landing-place,  and  the 

236 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

lancers  and  cuirassiers  cleared  the  way.  The  official 
greetings  followed,  then  the  escort  closed  round  the 
carriages  and  galloped  up  the  dripping  asphalt,  the 
crowds  running  behind,  cheering  in  the  rain. 

It  was  interesting  that  afternoon — while  the  lancers 
and  cuirassiers  were  clattering  through  the  streets  ac- 
companying the  official  visits,  and  everywhere  buzzed 
the  name  of  Mr.  Root — to  pick  up  an  afternoon  paper, 
still  damp  from  the  press,  and  to  read  things  like  these : 

“Mr.  Root,  an  intelligent  observer  of  political  and 
social  phenomena,  will  not  search  for  the  basis  of  his 
judgment  in  the  . . . honors,  exaggerated  or  not, 
which  our  Government  bestows  upon  him.  ...  A poli- 
tician as  eminent  and  as  keen  as  he  knows  very  well 
that  these  international  alliances  are  formed  solely 
under  the  pressure  of  the  needs  of  commerce  and  by 
the  stimulus  of  selfish  interests.  ...  If  he  will  con- 
sult our  statistics  he  will  perceive  that  it  is  with  the 
European  nations  that  we  maintain  an  interchange  of 
products,  the  United  States  being  our  strong  rival. 
Our  cereals  and  our  beef,  our  hides  and  wool,  have  no 
place  in  the  United  States — a country  which  produces 
and  exports  these  same  articles.  . . . Let  us  receive 
most  kindly,  then,  our  illustrious  traveller.  But  if  we 
resist  certain  tendencies  of  the  Pan-American  Congress 
and  President  Roosevelt  and  his  illustrious  Minister, 
let  him  understand  that  we  do  so  inspired  only  by  the 
purest  patriotism  and  the  highest  interests  in  our 
country.  . . . Our  statesmen  no  longer  can  shut  up 
in  a box,  so  to  speak,  the  collective  thought  . . . and 

237 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


interests  of  the  nation  . . . modern  means  of  com- 
munication  often  give  greater  efficiency  to  an  experi- 
enced and  practical  commercial  agent  than  to  a pol- 
ished ambassador,  master  of  all  the  arts  of  Metternich. 
. . . Let  us  be  sincere;  let  us  be  of  our  own  time;  let 
us  make  a diplomacy  of  real  interests,  living  real  life 
with  open  lungs.”  To  meet  opposition  so  intelligent  and 
unemotional  as  this,  was  one  of  the  most  instructive 
experiences  which  his  journey  brought  to  Mr.  Root. 

Toward  sunset  the  skies  cleared,  and  all  Buenos 
Aires  poured  into  the  streets,  with  the  good  humor 
which  might  be  expected  to  accompany  the  prospect 
of  a three  days’  fiesta  and  a splendid  free  show.  Every- 
where there  were  lights.  Florida  Street  was  festooned 
with  incandescent  lamps,  in  the  Argentine  and  Ameri- 
can colors,  as  though  she  had  hung  herself  with  many 
necklaces.  Beneath  this  blaze  trooped  a crowd  much 
like — except  that  it  mostly  spoke  Spanish  or  Italian 
or  French — a Broadway  crowd  on  New  Year’s  or 
Election  Night.  Mr.  Root  was  being  banqueted  in 
the  Government  House  on  the  plaza,  and  the  great 
show  of  the  evening  was  set  for  10:30  o’clock,  when 
the  banqueting  party  were  to  emerge  upon  a balcony 
and  watch  the  firemen  march  by  in  a torchlight 
parade.  For  hours  the  populace  surged  in  the  plaza 
below,  proud  to  be  ridden  back  into  line  by  their 
splendid  cuirassiers,  shouting  out  Latin  jests  to  the 
pastry-cook’s  men  from  the  Cafe  de  Paris  who  pattered 
through  on  their  way  to  the  banquet  hall  balancing 
trays  of  wonderful  quaking  jellies  on  their  heads. 

238 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

At  last  there  was  a great  shout.  On  the  balcony  of 
the  palace  could  be  discerned  white  shirtfronts  framed 
in  a blaze  of  light,  the  bugles  screamed,  and  round  the 
plaza  and  past  the  reviewing  balcony  the  firemen 
came.  They  marched  like  infantry,  carrying  torches 
and  axes  instead  of  guns.  At  the  head  of  the  line  was 
a bugle  corps  which  counter-marched  and  drew  up  in 
front  of  the  balcony,  where,  all  during  the  procession, 
it  blared  in  shrill  unison  a curious  wild  march.  Pres- 
ently it  sent  out  a call,  one  of  those  wailing,  eery  calls 
of  which  South  American  buglers  are  so  fond.  Those 
who  had  passed  the  reviewing  stand  continued  their 
march  out  of  the  plaza  and  into  the  Avenida’s  lights. 
There  was  a rumble  in  the  distance,  and  all  at  once 
into  the  glare  in  front  of  the  reviewing  balcony  swept 
the  engines — steam  up  and  smoking — hook-ancl-ladder 
and  hose  carts,  pell-mell,  on  the  dead  run.  The  search- 
light from  the  top  of  the  “Prensa”  building,  which  had 
been  swooping  back  and  forth  over  the  crowd,  swung 
down  with  a fine  Latin  appreciation  of  the  spectacular, 
so  that  it  shone  down  one  side  of  the  square  and 
directly  on  the  turn  just  beyond  the  reviewing  stand. 
Into  this  shaft  of  naked  light  the  horses  swept  as  they 
rounded  the  turn,  every  movement  thrown  sharply  out. 
Not  one  of  the  drivers  could  see  an  inch  beyond  his 
horse’s  nose,  but  with  a determination  to  do  the  thing 
as  picturesquely  as  it  could  be  done,  every  man  of 
them  sent  his  team  down  into  that  shaft  of  blinding 
light  with  as  little  hesitancy  over  the  reason  why  as  if 
he  had  been  a trooper  at  Balaklava. 

239 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


The  crowd  went  wild.  The  moment  the  last  cart 
was  past  the  crowd  broke,  and  as  if  by  prearrangement 
surged  over  to  the  balcony,  roaring  for  “Meestaire 
R-r-roo!”  “Viva  Meestaire  R-r-roo/"  Those  on  the 
balcony  waved  their  arms  and  said  “Ssh!  Ssh!"  Mr. 
Root  stood  still,  waiting,  and  feeling,  one  would  think, 
very  pleased  with  himself.  The  noise  was  so  great 
when  he  started  to  speak  that  about  all  that  one  could 
hear  was  the  conclusion  of  his  half-dozen  sentences: 
“With  all  my  heart  I say  ‘Viva  the  Republic  of  the 
United  States!  Viva  the  Republic  of  Argentina!”' 
The  crowd  caught  nothing  but  the  “Vivas"  and  the 
word  “Argentina,"  but  they  understood  that  all  right 
and  fairly  exploded  with  delight.  “Que  dice  Meestaire 
R-r-roo!  Que  dice  Meestaire  R-roo!”  a lot  of  them  de- 
manded, crowding  about  as  they  heard  our  English, 
and  when  we  translated  what  little  wre  had  heard  they 
went  galloping  away,  repeating  it  to  each  other  like 
happy  children.  And  if  our  taciturn  and  impenetrable 
Secretary  may  have  seemed  to  be  losing  his  equi- 
librium, to  shout  out  such  emotional  things  as 
“Vivas!"  to  such  a crowd,  one  did  not  blame  him. 
The  sight  of  the  blazing  plaza  and  those  people — 
strange  to  him,  unable  to  speak  his  language — roaring 
for  him  as  they  did,  was  enough  to  agitate  a monu- 
ment. They  could  not  have  done  more  for  him  had  he 
been  one  of  their  own,  the  commander  of  their  coun- 
try’s army,  returning  from  a victorious  war. 

There  are  about  six  million  people  in  Argentina 
to-day,  and  well  over  a million  of  these — far  too  large 

240 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

a number  for  a city  which  does  little  manufacturing 
and  for  a country  whose  chief  business  is  raising  cattle 
and  wheat — are  herded  in  the  capital.  Of  these  porte- 
nos — the  name  by  which  the  inhabitants  of  Buenos 
Aires  have  been  known  since  the  days  when  Argentina 
was  a loose  confederation  and  the  inland  states  were 
continually  combating  the  pretensions  of  the  “people 
of  the  gate” — nearly  one-half  are  foreign  born.  The 
remainder,  however  tangled  their  origin  may  be,  are 
at  least  overwhelmingly  Latin,  and  more  and  more 
Latin,  with  each  year’s  immigration,  must  the  general 
population  become.  So  many  float  in  and  out,  particu- 
larly the  laborers  who  come  over  for  the  harvests  and 
return  to  Europe  with  their  pay,  that  immigration 
figures  may  not  quite  be  taken  at  their  face  value. 
Such  as  they  are,  however,  they  show  between  1857 
and  1905  a total  immigration  of  2,461,107,  of  whom 
nearly  140,000  landed  in  that  last  year.  Of  these  im- 
migrants 1,488,084  were  Italians,  507,853  Spaniards, 
176,853  French — that  is  to  say,  out  of  the  2,461,107, 
2,172,790  were  Latins.  Of  the  rest,  Austria,  Germany 
and  Great  Britain  each  sent  between  thirty  and  forty 
thousand,  there  were  some  26,000  Swdss,  20,000 
Belgians  and  some  127,000  altogether  from  other 
corners  of  the  world.  There  is  practically  no  aboriginal 
race  left  in  Argentina,  and  there  are  almost  no  negroes 
— nothing  to  correspond  to  that  inert  Indian  and 
cholo  mass  which  forms  the  bulk  of  such  populations 
as  Bolivia’s  and  Peru’s,  nor  to  the  mulattos  and  mes- 
tizos which  so  far  outnumber  the  whites  of  Brazil. 

241 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


Except  for  a few  Indian  descendants — many  of  the 
capital’s  mounted  police  have  the  high  cheek-bones 
and  hawk-eyes  of  the  Southern  Indians,  and  fine-look- 
ing fellows  they  are — Argentina,  and  especially  its 
capital,  is  practically  a white  man’s  country. 

Nearly  forty  thousand  Englishmen  have  made  their 
homes  down  here  and  brought  along  with  them  their 
church  and  schools,  their  foot-ball  and  cricket  and 
polo.  English  capital  has  always  been  heavily  invested 
in  Argentina — it  was  the  depreciation  of  Argentine 
currency  following  a lavish  issue  of  inconvertible 
notes  in  1S90  which  sent  Baring  Brothers  into  liquida- 
tion— and  to-day  the  railroads  which  web  the  pampa 
and  carry  one  across  the  continent  to  Chile  are  mostly 
in  British  hands.  The  greater  proportion  of  British 
colonists  live  in  or  near  Buenos  Aires — at  Iiurlingham, 
for  instance,  or  Belgrano,  whence  you  can  see  them 
hurrying  in  to  their  offices  of  a morning  just  as  com- 
muters do  at  home.  They  have  two  newspapers,  the 
“Standard”  and  “Herald,”  and  the  Phoenix  Hotel, 
where  some  live  and  the  newcomers  tarry  while  getting 
their  bearings,  is  almost  as  muchaboxed-up  fragment  of 
the  British  Isles  as  the  Royal  Mail  boat  that  one  steps 
into  from  the  wharf  at  La  Guayra.  It  is  worth  while, 
after  such  a day  as  I have  suggested  at  the  races  and 
theatres,  to  step  down  the  Callc  San  Martin  the  next 
morning  before  one’s  desayuno  enthusiasm  has  evapo- 
rated into  the  Phoenix  lounging  room,  just  to  see  the 
British  faces  and  hear  the  talk,  and — figuratively 
glancing  over  the  shoulder  of  some  ruddy  old  gentle- 

242 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


man  buried  in  his  morning’s  “Herald”  or  “Standard” — 
catch  a few  reflections  from  this  little  transplanted 
world. 

They’re  reading  the  home  news,  of  course,  for  one 
thing — “the  anxiety  felt  over  Mr.  Joseph  Chamber- 
lain’s continued  indisposition,”  specially  cabled  and 
double-leaded;  Cambridge’s  victory  in  the  University 
match  at  Lord’s,  the  Newmarket  Meeting,  and  Din- 
nerford’s  easy  win  of  the  Princess  of  Wales’s  Stakes; 
the  Henley  Regatta — if  the  Grand  Challenge  Cup  had 
to  be  won  by  a foreign  crew,  toward  no  one  would  less 
grudge  be  felt  than  toward  the  Belgians.  They’ve 
always  raced  in  the  English  sporting  spirit,  at  any  rate, 
and  been  welcome. 

As  for  sport,  however,  there’s  plenty  here  at  home. 
Sixteen  foot-ball  matches  were  played  off  yesterday — 
Belgrano  won  from  Quilines,  2 goals  to  0 — “a  fast 
game  all  through,  but  science  conspicuous  by  its  ab- 
sence.” Alumni  beat  Belgrano  Extra  2 to  1 in  the 
second  round  of  the  cup-tie  competition,  Estudiantes 
won  from  Barracas  at  Palermo,  the  feature  of  the 
game  being  the  really  remarkable  goal-keeping  of  Coe, 
who  went  back  from  forward  on  account  of  his  bad  toe. 
The  Captain’s  team  won  from  the  Secretary’s  in  the 
golf  match  at  Lomas  — “the  links  in  tip-top  condition 
and  weather  fine.”  There  was  racing,  both  at  Hur- 
lingham  and  Palermo — a huge  crowd  at  the  latter  place 
to  see  the  first  of  the  three-year-old  classics.  Sport  on 
the  whole  fairly  good,  though  backers’  backers  had  a 
bad  time  of  it.  Segura  won  from  start  to  finish  in 

243 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


grand  style  and  “though  the  stable  connection  hadn’t 
let  her  run  loose — as  the  ticket  to  her  name  showed 
plainly  enough — the  masses  were  on  Geisha,  who  ran 
creditably,  but  far  from  brilliantly,  and  was  palpably 
on  the  fine  side.” 

Mr.  Monsch  avers,  in  the  advertising  columns,  that 
his  is  “the  only  real  English  restaurant  in  town,”  and 
he  offers  as  special  dishes  for  this  day,  Monday:  “Roast 
pork  with  apple-sauce,  boiled  leg  of  mutton  with  caper 
sauce  and  steak  and  kidney  pudding.”  Miss  Muriel 
Francis,  Typist — can  she  be  really  real — awaits  work 
at  her  office,  65  Congallo.  The  English  Book-exchange 
offers  Winston  Churchill’s  “Coniston” — the  subtle 
bookseller  evidently  hoping  that  many  will  think  this 
is  our  Winston — and  Mr.  Upton  Sinclair’s  “Jungle” — 
the  last  word,  it  seems,  since  Zola’s  “J’accuse.” 
Ploughs  and  disc  cultivators,  white  Wyandottes  and 
Scotch  collie  pups  are  recommended  and  honest 
Messrs.  Coghill  and  Sidebottom  offer  ten  beautiful 
Shorthorn  bulls,  just  imported,  and  three  magnificent 
Suffolk  stallions,  to  which — conveniently  arranged  for 
Spanish  readers — Mr.  David  Calder  adds  “8  sobre- 
salientes  padrillos  Clydesdale imported  from  the  “ repu - 
tadas  cabanas  inglesas  del  Marquis  de  Londonderry .” 

There  have  been  amateur  theatricals  at  Belgrano. 
All  excellent,  of  course,  but  Mr.  Brookhouse,  “as  the 
frog-eater  in  that  exquisitely  funny  farce,  ‘Id  on  parle 
frangais was  particularly  immense.”  The  Belgrano 
Ladies’  Mandolin  Club  thank  those  who  so  kindly 
assisted  in  the  children’s  dance  and  play  held  on  Fri- 

244 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


day  last,  but  beg  to  remind  the  editor  that  he  neglected 
to  mention  that  “ figuring  on  the  stage  with  becoming 
prominence  were  the  allegorical  personages — Britannia, 
John  Bull  and  Uncle  Sam.”  Mr.  J.  McGavin  Greig 
sailed  yesterday  for  England  on  a combined  business 
and  pleasure  trip.  He  will  be  greatly  missed  by  his 
Belgrano  Rugby  friends. 

The  daily  letter  from  Montevideo,  a night’s  journey 
across  the  mouth  of  the  great  Plata,  brings  the  news 
that  the  golfing  weather  has  been  wretched.  The  “first 
function  given  by  the  entertainment  society  at  Vic- 
toria Hall  was,  however,  a great  success  and  listened 
to  by  a large  audience,  including  the  British  Minister 
and  his  family.”  Mr.  H.  G.  Morton  sang  “0  Promise 
Me,”  and  Mr.  Percy  Permain  of  “yours” — so  they 
speak  of  each  other’s  bank  of  that  mighty  river — “cer- 
tainly a side-splitting  comic  vocalist  of  considerable 
talent,  proved  a tower  of  strength  and  was  recalled  half 
a dozen  times  or  more  for  each  song.” 

Nothing  in  Buenos  Aires  interested  me  so  much  as 
its  newspapers,  and  certainly  in  few  things  can  it  face 
comparison  more  confidently.  Just  what  the  “189 
daily  and  periodical  newspapers”  may  be  of  which  the 
statisticians  tell— “157  published  in  Spanish,  14  in 
Italian,  2 in  French,  6 in  English  and  8 in  German” — I 
cannot  say.  The  ones  you  pick  up  from  the  news- 
stand, in  addition  to  the  two  little  sheets  already  men- 
tioned, which  are  only  valuable  for  their  gossip  of  the 
English  colony,  are  “La  Prensa,”  “La  Nacion”  and 
“El  Diario,”  and  possibly  “El  Pais”  or  “La  Razon.” 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

Of  these  “La  Prensa”  is  the  one  best  known  abroad. 
When  there  is  an  earthquake  on  the  West  Coast  or 
a war  on  the  other  side  of  the  world  or  big  news  in 
town,  “La  Prensa ’s  ” whistle  blows  and  all  the  town 
within  earshot  knows  that  something  has  happened. 
If  you  are  an  Antarctic  explorer,  a famous  scientist, 
or  some  other  semi-public  personage,  “La  Prensa ” 
may  invite  you  to  occupy  during  your  stay  the  lux- 
urious apartments  provided  in  its  building  for  such 
distinguished  guests.  If  you  are  too  poor  to  employ  a 
doctor  you  can  go  to  “La  Prensa’s”  dispensary.  You 
may  take  English  lessons  in  its  language  department 
or  use  its  library  free  of  expense  and  if  properly  ac- 
quainted be  invited  to  its  concerts  and  lectures.  Like 
its  lesser  rival  of  the  West  Coast,  “El  Mercurio”  of  Val- 
paraiso and  Santiago,  “La  Prensa”  is  the  property  of  a 
rich  family,  which  takes  as  much  trouble  to  maintain 
the  paper’s  prestige  as  it  might  to  develop  a new 
orchid.  Its  office  building,  situated  on  the  Avenida  de 
Mayo,  only  a stone’s  throw  away  from  the  Calle 
Florida  is  fitted  up  as  elaborately  as  a club.  The  re- 
porters have  their  grill-room,  the  proprietor  his  private 
living  apartments — which  he  never  uses — and  the 
presses  and  all  the  rest  of  the  equipment  follow  the 
latest  European  and  North  American  ideas.  It  prints 
cable  news  from  all  over  the  world  and  fourteen  large 
pages,  the  first  three  of  which  are  want-advertisements 
set  in  microscopic  type.  The  amount  of  advertising  of 
this  sort  reminds  one  of  the  New  York  “ Herald,”  whose 
position,  indeed,  it  rather  duplicates  among  the  papers 

246 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


of  Buenos  Aires.  It  is  the  one  of  which  foreigners  have 
always  heard,  just  as  the  New  York  “Herald  ” is  gener- 
ally the  only  North  American  paper  which  South 
Americans  know  about.  It  is  more  entertainingly 
written  and  far  more  important  editorially  than  our 
“Herald,”  however,  and  although  it  has  less  political 
weight  than  “La  Nacion  ” — which  might  be  compared 
to  the  “Times” — and  is  less  clever  and  witty  than  “El 
Diario”  — it  is  the  paper  most  generally  read  by  the 
man  in  the  street. 

“El  Diario” — whose  courteously  acidulous  comment 
on  the  trade  relations  between  Argentina  and  the 
United  States  has  already  been  quoted — might  be 
called  the  “Sun”  of  Buenos  Aires.  Of  all  the  Buenos 
Aires  papers,  it  is  the  cleverest  and  most  entertain- 
ing. It  was  anti-American  during  Mr.  Root’s  stay, 
carrying  out  this  policy  in  its  news  stories  as  well 
as  editorials,  and  by  filling  them  full  of  realistic  color 
and  humor,  yet  never  missing  a chance  to  poke  fun 
skilfully  at  minor  details — the  medals  some  of  the 
reception  committee  had  scraped  together,  the  won- 
derful hat,  “dernier  cri ,”  worn  by  one  of  them,  the 
tremendous  solemnity  assumed  by  every  one — it  con- 
trived, while  being  uniformly  polite,  to  throw  a light 
veil  of  ridicule  over  the  whole  proceeding.  The  New 
York  “Sun”  could  not  have  done  it  better  if  condi- 
tions had  been  reversed  and  it  had  put  all  its  star  re- 
porters on  the  story.  If  the  Honorable  Elihu  Root 
took  the  trouble  to  carry  a bundle  of  Buenos  Aires 
papers  with  him,  his  dry  humor  must  have  received 

247 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


considerable  agreeable  stimulant  during  the  Charles- 
ton’s long  journey  through  the  Straits. 

Midway  between  the  news  stories  and  the  serious 
editorials  of  our  papers  are  the  cronicas — a kind  of 
writing  at  which  these  Latin  journalists  are  particularly 
good.  In  these  cronicas , half  description  and  half  com- 
ment, they  can  expend  that  sensibility  of  which  they 
have  so  much,  and  the  way  they  do  squander  it,  is,  to 
the  tongue-tied  Saxon,  perennially  astonishing.  Day 
after  day  this  “flub-dub” — to  borrow  the  slang  of 
Park  Row — which  our  reporters  would  spend  hours  of 
midnight  oil  upon  and  probably  try  to  sell  to  a maga- 
zine— appears,  necessarily  dashed  off  at  the  reporter’s 
unthinking  speed,  yet  finished,  “literary,”  full  of 
atmosphere  and  feeling.  From  such  a cronica,  the 
description  of  the  crowd  going  to  the  races  was  quoted. 
The  same  reporter’s  fine  Italian  hand,  if  one  is  not 
mistaken,  is  shown  in  this  Agua  Bendita  Sin  Bendi- 
ciones”  (Holy  Water  that  Gets  No  Benediction),  which 
appeared  one  afternoon  during  the  week  of  insistent 
mists  and  rain  that  preceded  Mr.  Root’s  arrival. 

“ Insistente,  fastidiosa , casi  implacable ” — the  slow, 
clinging  rhythm  of  the  words,  detached  from  any 
meaning,  brings  back  those  melancholy  afternoons, 
when  it  seemed  as  though  the  breath  of  the  pampa 
itself  was  drifting  through  the  lighted  streets  and  one 
could  almost  smell  the  stretches  of  grass,  saturated, 
blanketed  in  mists,  dripping  with  rain — “Insistente, 
fastidiosa,  casi  implacable,  la  lluvia  envuelve  hace  dias 
la  ciudad  en  la  tristeza  de  su  melopea  gris ” . . . The 

248 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 


whole  Argentine,  it  appears,  was  enveloped  in  rain. 
It  had  lasted  days,  was  likely  to  last  some  days  to 
come. 

‘“Maldito  tiempo!’  exclaims  the  city,  wet,  ill-hu- 
mored, spattered  with  mud  ...”  Imperceptibly, 
almost,  this  purely  descriptive  introduction  drifts  into 
a practical  consideration  of  the  good  such  a rain  wTill 
do  an  agricultural  and  stock-raising  country  and  ends 
with  the  suggestion  that  if  the  President  should  write 
to  the  farmers,  congratulating  them  on  the  temporal, 
it  would  be  much  more  sensible  and  appropriate  than 
most  presidential  messages. 

Here  in  “La  Nacion”is  a similar  contribution,  entitled 
“La  Came  es  Flaca”  (Meat  is  Lean).  Our  cronista 
begins  with  a description  of  the  crowded  streets  during 
the  illumination  the  night  before.  “We  felt,”  he  ob- 
serves “a  certain  intimate  satisfaction  in  beholding 
such  a fiesta,  which  seemed  to  bring  nearer  to  realiza- 
tion that  which  we  have  desired  for  so  long,  that  Buenos 
Aires  should  be  a great  city,  not  only  in  population 

“ La  came  es  fiaca  . . . 

“This  phrase  was  made  more  interesting  by  being 
pronounced  by  a handsome  woman  in  the  full  vigor  of 
life — ‘la  femme  de  trente  ans  de  Balzac’ — who  was  talk- 
ing to  her  companion  in  front  of  a shop  window,  whither 
they  had  been  swept  by  the  crowd. 

“‘And  dear!’  exclaimed  her  companion.  Several 
people  turned  to  listen,  smiling  sympathetically,  but 
the  two  women,  absorbed  in  their  own  ideas,  went  on 
as  though  no  listeners  were  there. 

249 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


‘“The  kilo  which  cost  forty  centavos  yesterday, 
I paid  fifty  for  to-day  and  they  say  it’s  going  up  still 
further.’ 

‘“My  butcher  tells  me  the  same  thing.  Living  is  a 
horror  here!  One  can't  live  in  Buenos  Aires!’ 

“‘Which  doesn’t  prevent  their  spending  hundreds 
of  thousands  on  useless  things — at  least  superfluous 
ones.’ 

“In  the  middle  of  that  kaleidoscopic  multitude, 
apparently  care-free  and  satisfied  with  the  present 
moment,  amused  and  animated  by  the  spectacle,  this 
conversation  had  a unique  interest.  No  stage  manager 
could  put  on  the  theatre  stage  a piece  so  saliently  true 
to  life,  so  full  of  psychological  suggestion,  and  effective 
because  of  its  very  simplicity.  For  no  one  could  con- 
vey to  the  stage  the  impression  produced  by  this  sud- 
den appearance  of  household  cares  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  fiesta,  in  that  whirlwind  of  artificial  life  ...” 

Moralizing  on  the  lesson  which  certain  types  of  poli- 
ticians might  learn  from  these  wromen — who  showed 
how  even  a thing  apparently  so  simple  as  housekeep- 
ing, required  constant  thought,  not  to  be  cast  aside  even 
in  holiday  moments — the  reporter  drifts  into  a con- 
sideration of  the  cost  of  living  in  Buenos  Aires,  the 
effect  of  recent  strikes  and  boycotts  and  the  sad  phe- 
nomenon that,  in  spite  of  prosperity  and  the  brilliance 
of  the  capital,  prices  of  necessities  are  constantly  in- 
creasing. 

“On  this  problem,”  he  concludes,  “the  luminous 
torrents  of  the  streets  shed  no  light.”  Nor  did  it 

2fiO 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

seem  likely  that  the  echo  of  such  conversations  would 
ever  reach  the  municipality.  And,  after  despairing 
somewhat  over  the  fatuity  of  past  legislation,  he 
wishes  that  a new  municipal  regime  might  be  estab- 
lished ‘'into  whose  deliberations  might  enter  two  or 
three  administrators  like  those  whom  he  had  listened 
to  the  night  before  in  the  Calle  Florida.” 

For  life  in  the  Argentine  capital  is  not  all  lights  and 
amusement  and  rather  strident  pleasure,  and  I should 
convey  a wrong  impression  if,  in  accenting  somewhat 
the  note  which  differentiates  it  most  obviously  from 
other  South  American  capitals,  I should  make  it  seem 
so.  It  has  none  of  Lima’s  charm  of  antiquity,  none  of 
the  land-and-water  beauties  of  Rio,  but  it  has  some- 
thing else,  made  up  of  graceful  compactness  and  finish, 
of  vigor,  sophistication  and  comfort.  There  are  people 
who  attract,  not  because  they  are  refined  or  highly 
educated  or  have  discriminating  noses,  but  because 
they  are  extremely  alive.  Cities  may  do  the  same. 

Things  are  done  well  in  the  City  of  Good  Airs. 
There  are  good  things  to  eat,  comfortable  rooms  to 
live  in,  places  where  a man  can  get  his  exercise  and 
outdoor  sport.  After  the  tropics,  the  gringo  feels  like 
a man  who  has  been  hopping  from  foothold  to  foothold 
in  a swamp  and  steps  at  last  on  solid  ground.  The 
creature  comforts  of  a capable,  wide-awake,  well- 
arranged  city  soothingly  envelope  him.  The  cabman 
knows  where  he  wants  to  go,  the  waiter  knows  what  he 
wants  to  eat.  The  mounted  policeman,  in  breastplate 
and  horse-tail  helmet,  rides  him  back  with  the  rest  of 

251 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


the  crowd  and  does  it  so  quietly  and  with  such  sophis- 
ticated nonchalance  that  he  promptly  conceives  a 
passionate  admiration  for  that  policeman  and  his 
beautiful  horse,  falls  into  the  collective  pride  com- 
mon to  all  city  dwellers,  and  is  ready  to  declare  that 
there  is  no  other  policeman  so  fine  in  the  world. 
The  streets  are  clean  and  the  buildings  which 
line  them,  however  gingerbready  their  architecture, 
are  held  within  decorous  maximum  and  minimum 
limits  of  height.  Everything  is  near  at  hand.  The 
hotel,  club,  bank,  drive,  the  restaurants  and  theatres 
are  all  within,  so  to  say,  feeling  distance.  And  this 
physical  compactness  and  neatness,  this  continental 
glitter  and  activity,  set  here,  oasis-like,  combine  to 
give  the  whole  a certain  diminutiveness  and  snug  inti- 
macy. There’s  a ‘Tittle  old  Buenos  Aires,”  too. 

Italians,  Spaniards,  French,  Argentines,  what  you 
will — here  they  are,  really  living  out  what  so  many 
other  Latin  Americans  dream.  “Some  day” — so  solil- 
oquizes the  man  across  the  table,  as  you  sit  on  a res- 
taurant balcony  looking  out  at  the  blue  Caribbean,  or 
watching  the  droll  pereza  moving  an  inch  a minute 
along  a tree  trunk  or  the  lazy  mestizos  drowsing  in  the 
sun — “Some  day,  somebody’ll  step  in  here  and  bring 
these  fellows  up  standing  and  teach  them  how  to  live. 
They  can’t  govern  themselves  and  somebody  else  must. 
And  there  won’t  be  anything  here  until  they  do.”  At 
other  places  and  times  you  hear  orators  telling  what 
the  future  will  bring;  how  this  continent  is  the  pre- 
ordained home  of  the  Latin  race,  which  will  pour  down 

252 


THE  CITY  OF  GOOD  AIRS 

from  crowded  Europe  to  a new-world  reincarnation. 
Well,  here  it  is — and  this  is  the  significantly  interesting 
thing  about  Buenos  Aires — this  prophecy  fulfilled. 
No  one  has  stepped  in — rather  all  the  world  has — not 
as  conquerors,  but  following  the  same  laws  which  have 
brought  Italians  over  to  dig  our  ditches  and  Scandi- 
navians to  our  Northwestern  wheat-fields.  And  here 
is  a city,  as  Latin  as  Naples  or  Barcelona,  all  worked 
out  and  swinging  along,  strong,  self-sufficient,  and 
very  much  alive — the  hint  of  what  all  Latin  America 
may  some  day  be. 


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CHAPTER  XIII 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

Go  rolling  down  to  Rio, 

Roll  down,  roll  down  to  Rio. 

I’d  like  to  roll  to  Rio 
Some  dag  before  I’m  old. 

— Kipling. 

When  the  wind  blows  the  wrong  way  at  Buenos  Aires 
something  happens  to  the  River  of  Silver  and  there 
isn’t  enough  water  for  ships  to  cross  the  bar.  As  long 
as  the  contrary  airs  hold  the  big  boats  lie  in  their 
basins,  quaintly  waiting,  as  at  home  they  wait  for  the 
more  mannerly  tides. 

So  our  Messageries  Maritimes  liner  Magellan,  due 
to  sail  at  nine  o’clock,  waited  all  that  interminable 
day,  while  we,  up  at  daybreak  and  drowsy  from  the 
dance  of  the  night  before,  sat  cooped  up  behind  her 
rail,  glaring  cynically  at  the  tintype  men  on  the  dock 
who  insisted  on  taking  your  picture  if  you  let  your  eyes 
rest  on  them  for  so  much  as  a second,  and  then  broke 
into  a violent  Latin  sadness  if  you  declined  to  buy. 
The  reception  to  Mr.  Root  was  at  its  height.  Once  he 
flitted  past  us,  inspecting  these  superior  docks.  A 
squadron  of  gorgeous  cuirassiers  galloped  to  the  land- 

9CL1 

-WCTX 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


ing-stage  with  him,  dismounted  and  stood  at  their 
horses’  heads  while  he  was  gone,  enveloped  him  again, 
presently,  and  galloped  away,  swords  rattling,  horse- 
tails streaming  from  helmets,  and  brazen  breastplates 
shining  in  the  sun.  Not  permitted  to  cross  the  gang- 
plank, lest  at  any  moment  the  waters  might  come  back 
where  they  belonged,  we  tramped  the  deck;  digested 
all  the  polite  French  notices,  in  which  Messieurs  les 
passagers  were  informed  that  vetements  blancs  might 
not  be  worn  outside  the  state-room  except  between 
eleven  at  night  and  five  in  the  morning,  nor  were  they 
to  appear  at  table  without  collars  and  cuffs,  and  they 
were  prayed  to  cease  at  eleven  in  the  evening  tout 
chant,  toute  conversation  bruyante  which  was  likely  to 
disturb  the  other  passengers. 

Night  fell,  the  lights  came  out,  still  there  was  not 
enough  water  to  float  us  out  to  sea.  The  forbidden  city 
became  more  and  more  a paradise  from  which  we  were 
shut  out.  Down  in  that  glow  which  lit  the  whole  sky, 
as  Broadway  lights  it  at  home,  we  could  see  the  Calle 
Florida  crowded  from  curb  to  curb,  a blazing  stream  of 
lights  and  people  and  polyglot  talk;  the  velvet-footed 
broughams,  the  mounted  escort  galloping  here  and 
there — and  here  we  must  sit  in  that  silent  ship,  listen- 
ing to  water  pouring  from  the  bilge-pumps  into  the 
basin,  and  watching  the  “Prensa’s”  searchlight  swing 
across  the  sky.  We  mooned  off,  finally,  like  spoiled 
children,  whimpering  because  they  were  sent  to  bed, 
and  early  the  next  morning,  when  we  awoke  to  feel  the 
«ea  breeze  blowing  into  the  open  port  and  saw  the 

255 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


lights  twinkling  on  the  horizon’s  edge,  just  as  they 
twrinkle  from  the  Coney  Island  and  Rockaway  beaches 
as  one  slips  out  to  sea  from  New  York,  we  were  con- 
vinced that  this  was,  somehow,  one  of  life’s  tragedies 
and  that  wre  should  probably  never  want  anything  so 
badly  as  we  wanted,  just  then,  to  be  back  in  that 
twinkling  town. 

For  three  days  followed  the  suspended  animation  of 
the  sea,  during  which  the  Argentine  capital  remained, 
apotheosized  in  those  retreating  lights,  a place  gla- 
moured over  and  gay.  Then,  one  evening,  as  we  were 
tramping  the  deck,  wrapped  in  coats  and  shawls,  with 
minds  keyed  to  the  pitch  of  the  metropolis  and  the 
brisk  south  equatorial  wdnter,  a softness  crept  into  the 
breeze.  It  seemed  to  come  all  at  once,  as  though  we 
had  gone  out  of  one  room  and  into  another — the  soft, 
melting,  feminine  breath  of  the  tropics.  There  is  noth- 
ing like  it  in  our  North;  the  nearest  approach  is  the 
air  that  breathes  up  from  the  land  after  a summer  rain. 
It  plays  quaint  tricks  sometimes,  makes  neat,  well- 
arranged  theories  seem  foolish  and  absurd,  and  sends 
men  chasing  strange  gods.  All  that  night  it  blew  into 
the  hot  state-room — velvety  and  sweet,  vaguely  sug- 
gesting steamy,  sun-drenched  fields;  still,  indigo  la- 
goons ; forests  alive  with  giant  butterflies  and  shrouded 
with  creepers  and  moss.  The  next  morning  land  lay 
off  the  port  bow — wooded  hills  rising  from  the  yellow 
beach — velvety,  misty-green.  Then  came  a river, 
broad,  brimming,  slow-flowing,  up  which  the  big 
steamer  wound.  On  the  bank  were  huts  of  thatch, 

250 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


dugouts  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  negro  women  in  white 
cotton  slips,  showing  out  here  and  there  against  the 
green.  The  wooded  hills  climbed  into  mountains,  im- 
mersed in  bluish  haze.  Above,  occasional  cumulus 
clouds  hung  suspended,  like  cotton  fastened  to  the  sky. 
And  over  all  that  heat  and  humid  shimmer,  and 
breathing  across  it  that  velvet,  spicy  breath,  as  of 
earth  newly-washed  with  rain.  The  lamps  and  trolley- 
cars  and  asphalt  faded  away.  Again  we  had  entered 
the  land  of  sun  and  laziness  and  languor.  This  was 
Brazil — where  the  coffee  comes  from. 

It  is  larger  than  all  our  United  States  and  covers 
nearly  half  of  the  southern  continent.  From  the  rub- 
ber forests  north  of  the  Amazon  to  the  southernmost 
parts  of  Rio  Grande  do  Sul,  measured  by  degrees,  is  as 
far  as  from  the  lower  end  of  Florida  to  the  top  of  Labra- 
dor; and  from  the  Amazon’s  headwaters  to  Cape  St. 
Roque  on  the  east  is  as  far  as  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Pacific.  Ocean  steamers  run  regularly  up  the  Amazon 
as  far  as  Manaos,  and  here,  a thousand  miles  inland,  is 
a modern  city  of  some  forty  or  fifty  thousand  people. 
Yet  a line  drawn  thence  ’cross  country  to  the  south- 
east corner  passes  through  regions  as  large  as  France 
or  Germany,  which  the  map-makers  mark  with  little 
trees  as  though  they  were  ancients  drawing  charts  of 
the  Indies.  It  is  a country  at  once  old  almost  to  the 
point  of  decadence  and  “new”  as  Alaska  or  the  Trans- 
vaal. The  lazy,  lovely,  sprawling  capital  has  its  school 
of  fine  arts  and  of  music,  its  little  Academy  of  Immor- 
tals, its  erudite,  solemnly  lyrical  gentlemen,  who  set 

257 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


down  their  reflections  in  French  and  describe  their 
country’s  languors  in  words  that  fairly  drip  and  flow — 
yet  eighty-five  per  cent,  of  the  nation  do  not  know 
how  to  read  or  write.  There  is  the  strip  of  coast  with 
its  cities,  and  the  Amazon,  and  within  their  embrace 
the  vast,  mysterious  island — with  forests,  minerals, 
fertile  lands,  endless  waterpower — a potentiality  incal- 
culable. 

The  two  liveliest  impressions  which  one  receives  on 
entering  Brazil  from  the  south,  which  still  usurp  the 
attention  on  saying  good-by  in  the  north  to  the  blaz- 
ing white  walls  of  Recife,  come  from  the  Portuguese 
and  that  implacable  sun.  All  the  rest  of  South  Amer- 
ica is  Spanish,  and  the  gringo,  partly  Castilianized  by 
this  time,  is  promptly  appalled  by  this  grotesquely 
similar  but,  as  it  sounds  to  him,  shambling  and  slov- 
enly tongue.  Speech  is  always  a mirror  of  racial  char- 
acteristics, and  the  difference  between  these  sing-song, 
throaty  diphthongs  and  the  precise,  clean-cut  Spanish 
seems  to  suggest  underlying  differences  between  the 
Brazilians  and  their  neighbors  of  Chile  or  Argentina. 
The  Spaniard  is  aggressive,  fierce,  volatile,  decided, 
sharp ; the  Portuguese  solemn,  slow,  bigoted  and 
determined.  The  one — as  the  gifted  Brazilian  from 
whom  I have  tactfully  borrowed  these  adjectives  puts 
it — penetrates.  The  other  infiltrates.  This  man,  per- 
sistent, determined,  and  a little  sad,  was  set  down  in  a 
country  of  forests  and  jungles,  under  the  implacable 
sun — the  sun  which  grows  the  coffee,  makes  the  African 
as  sleek  and  strong  and  happy  as  in  his  native  jungle, 

258 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


while  under  it  flaxen-haired  Germans,  in  spite  of 
mailed  fists  and  state  help,  drowse  and  fade,  forget  the 
poetry  of  the  Fatherland,  and  succumb  to  tuberculosis 
and  anaemia.  It  has  had  a great  deal  to  do,  in  the  four 
hundred  years  since  the  Portuguese  came,  with  making 
the  Brazil  of  to-day,  and,  whatever  colonial  adven- 
turers it  shines  upon,  it  will  have  much  to  do  with  the 
Brazil  of  to-morrow.  With  which  overture  we  step 
into  sun-washed  Santos,  alongside  the  stone  river  wall 
of  which  our  big  Frenchman  by  this  time  lies. 

Just  over  the  nearest  roofs,  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
blazing,  white-walled  street  that  meanders  through  the 
centre  of  the  town,  is  the  “Cafe  Comercial.”  It  is 
a plain  little  place,  with  a sanded  floor  and  tables  be- 
tween which  waiters  are  always  carrying  little  coffee- 
pots. In  one  is  hot  milk  and  in  the  other  what  comes 
very  close  to  being  the  best  coffee  in  the  world.  You 
drop  down  at  one  of  these  tables,  on  which  little  Sevres 
cups  are  always  waiting,  drop  a tiny  spoonful  of  the 
damp  native  sugar  in  one  of  them,  wave  a hand  in  a 
bored  tropical  way,  and  the  waiter,  without  question, 
fills  it,  just  as  thousands  of  other  waiters  are  doing  at 
that  moment  in  Sao  Paulo  and  Rio  and  Bahia  and 
Recife  and  other  towns  along  this  steamy  coffee  coast. 
Then  you  gaze  out  at  the  shimmering  white  wall 
across  the  way,  watch  the  coffee  agents — German, 
British,  Yankee,  Portuguese — bargaining  with  each 
other  in  the  open  street,  hear,  from  behind  the  ware- 
houses, the  hoarse  braying  of  a steamer  just  backing 
out  into  the  stream  for  Europe  or  South  Africa,  or  the 

259 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


States,  sip  what  seems  the  very  distillation  of  tropical 
sunshine  and  luxuriance,  and  feel,  somehow,  as  though 
you  were  at  the  very  centre  of  the  world. 

For,  in  a wTay,  you  are.  The  chances  are  a good 
many  to  one  that  the  brew  which  warms  the  arctic 
explorer,  wakes  up  the  Kansas  farm-hand,  or  ends 
some  exquisite  Parisian  dinner,  came  in  a gunny  sack 
down  the  road  from  Sao  Paulo  to  Santos — the  small 
round  berries  “Mocha,”  the  large  flat  ones  “Java” — 
and  was  carried  aboard  ship  on  the  back  of  a big  buck 
negro.  Practically  all  the  coffee  the  Western  world 
uses  comes  from  Brazil.  Seventy  per  cent,  of  the 
world’s  coffee  grows  there.  In  some  years — such  as 
1906,  for  instance,  when  nearly  fourteen  million  sacks, 
over  one  and  one-half  billion  pounds  of  it,  poured 
out  of  Brazil — Asia  and  Africa  together  produce  only 
about  one-tenth  as  much. 

It  is  a land  of  coffee.  Sweating  teamsters  and  carga- 
dores,  who  at  home  would  be  trying  to  get  outside  the 
“biggest  schooner  of  beer  in  town,”  drop  in  out  of  the 
heat  for  a moment  at  some  little  cubbyhole  with  a 
sanded  floor,  and  slowly  sip  their  thimbleful  of  black 
coffee.  In  Rio’s  great  shopping  street,  the  Rua  Ouvi- 
dor,  the  merchants  and  politicians  and  journalists  who 
flock  into  the  cafes  of  an  afternoon,  do  their  gossiping, 
not  over  cocktail  and  highball  glasses,  but  over  those 
little  white  cups.  They  are  so  universal,  even  in  shabby 
laborers’  cafes,  that  I almost  began  to  wonder  if  they 
w’ere  not  prescribed  by  the  government,  like  stamps  or 
currency.  When  the  train  stopped  at  some  way-station 

260 


Cargadores  loading  coffee  at  Santos. 


The  new  Avenida  Central  in  Rio. 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


on  the  road  from  Sao  Paulo  down  to  Rio,  the  small 
boys  who  would  sell  popcorn  or  sandwiches  or  apples 
at  home  walked  under  the  car  windows  with  their 
trays  and  steaming  coffee-cups.  One  drinks  enough  in 
a day  to  make  the  very  solicitous  ink  of  our  hygienic- 
coffee  advertisements  turn  pale,  yet  in  the  humid 
drowsiness  this  stimulant  seems  to  evaporate  harm- 
lessly. The  natives  are  used  to  it,  and  the  gringo’s  im- 
agination, charmed  by  what  seems  the  very  embodied 
perfume  of  the  tropics,  transmutes,  whatever  it  is  that 
coffee  oughtn’t  to  have,  into  thin  air,  and  he  swims  on, 
serene,  enveloped  in  food’s  humble  poetry. 

Most  of  the  coffee  is  grown  on  the  uplands  of  Sao 
Paulo,  a few  hours’  railroad  climb  over  wooded  moun- 
tains and  along  sombre,  velvety  valleys,  inland  from 
Santos.  Here  Brazil’s  Italian  immigrants  flock — there 
are  over  a million  Italians  in  the  state  of  Sao  Paulo — 
to  work  in  the  coffee  fazendas  generally,  and  send  their 
savings  back  to  Italy. 

The  capital,  also  called  Sao  Paulo,  a city  of  some 
300,000  people  now,  is  the  busiest  and  most  modern 
place  in  Brazil.  It  supports  spacious  and  active  trol- 
ley cars  on  some  seventy-five  miles  of  its  streets, 
theatres  and  music  halls,  “ permanent”  billboards 
which  amount  almost  to  mural  decoration;  there  is 
a large  American  school,  McKenzie  College,  now  in 
its  thirty-eighth  year,  an  American  shoe  factory,  and 
in  the  early  evening,  with  the  orchestras  playing  away 
in  half  a dozen  open  cafes,  the  downtown  streets 
have  an  un-Brazilian  suggestion  of  Buenos  Aires. 

261 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

There  are  between  fifteen  and  sixteen  thousand 
coffee  plantations  in  Sao  Paulo,  and  were  the  laws 
which  limit  production  removed,  this  one  state  doubt- 
less could  supply  the  world.  This  very  lavishness  of 
nature  has  been  one  of  Brazil’s  misfortunes.  The 
Brazilian’s  tendency  toward  fixed  ideas  having  petri- 
fied the  belief  that  Brazil  is  essentially  a coffee  country, 
everything  has  been  sacrificed  to  that.  There  is  no 
diversity  of  crops,  no  attempt  to  encourage  new  ones. 
A little  tapioca,  rice,  and  corn,  a few  beans  and  po- 
tatoes— enough  to  keep  the  planter  alive — this  and 
the  coffee.  Forests  have  been  cleared  off  and  wasted, 
the  soil  exhausted  and  left,  new  tracts  cleared,  new 
virgin  fields  violated. 

All  through  what  should  be  fat  and  smiling  farming 
country,  in  neighborhoods  long  inhabited,  one  meets 
such  depressing  landscapes  as  Milkau  saw  in  the  open 
pages  of  Senhor  Graga  Aranha’s  novel  “Chanaan”: 
“The  earth  was  weary  and  half-cultivated;  the  coffee- 
trees  lacked  that  dark-green  foliage  which  indicates 
vigorous  sap,  and  were  colored  a pale  green,  made 
almost  golden  by  the  sunlight;  the  leaves  of  the  man- 
dioca  plants,  delicate  and  narrow,  oscillated  as  if  they 
lacked  roots  and  might  be  blown  away  by  the  wind. 

. . . One  felt  in  contemplating  this  land,  without 
force,  exhausted,  smiling,  an  uneasy  mingling  of  pleas- 
ure and  melancholy.  The  earth  was  dying  there,  like 
a beautiful  woman,  still  young,  with  a gentle  smile  on 
her  pallid  face — useless  for  life,  infertile  for  love.  . . .” 

In  spite  of  wasteful  methods  the  crop  is  so  much 

262 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


larger  than  is  needed  that  the  state  must  needs  step  in 
and  try  to  lift  itself  by  its  own  boot-straps  by  the 
“valorization”  scheme  of  buying  up  all  coffee  offered. 
This  preying  on  the  land  is  only  the  inevitable  inheri- 
tance of  the  old  conquerors’  ideal  of  conquest  and 
spoliation,  another  of  those  archaisms  whose  sweeping 
out  is  the  task  of  the  Latin  America  of  to-morrow. 

From  Sao  Paulo  to  Rio  is  an  all-day’s  railroad 
journey,  north-eastward,  down  from  the  cool  uplands 
to  the  muggy  coast.  People  generally  take  a sleeping 
car.  Those  who,  as  I did,  go  by  day  to  see  the  country, 
find  it  not  unlike  a sort  of  Iowa  or  Indiana  down  at 
the  heels,  and  toward  sunset,  wilted,  weary,  caked 
with  dust,  are  set  down  in  Rio. 

It  is  so  perfectly  possible  to  fall  in  love  with  the 
Brazilian  capital  that,  having  unfortunately  taken  the 
most  effective  means  of  not  doing  so,  I feel  it  a certain 
responsibility  to  suggest  how  it  may  be  done.  One 
way  would  be  to  go  “rolling  down  to  Rio”  on  a Royal 
Mail  boat,  for  instance,  with  a lot  of  pleasant  people, 
and,  directly  on  landing,  pick  out  the  pleasantest,  take 
the  cog-wheel  road  up  the  Corcovado,  and  thence  look 
down  upon  what,  from  that  giddy  height,  is  one  of 
the  loveliest  cities  on  earth.  The  Corcovado  is  a rock 
jutting  over  the  trees,  about  two  thousand  feet  above 
the  town — so  sheer  that  you  look  down  on  Rio  and  the 
blue  harbor  as  from  a balloon — down  two  thousand 
feet  of  velvet-green  descents  to  the  terra-cotta  roofs 
and  sun-washed  walls  and  the  wheel-spoke  streets  like 
lines  on  a map.  Not  one  of  our  smoky  hives,  but  a 

263 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


city  of  villas  and  palms  and  showering  vines  and 
flowers,  meandering  about  and  over  the  foothills,  im- 
mersed in  the  blazing  tropical  sun.  The  cool,  laughing 
sea  envelops  it,  with  what  is  probably  the  finest  har- 
bor in  the  world — not  gray,  nor  green,  nor  steely,  but 
blue,  and  bluer  yet  in  the  sun.  And  all  about  in  it 
islands — agate  in  turquoise — jut  out  as  though  the 
gods  had  tossed  a handful  into  the  water — one,  the 
Sugarloaf,  rising  fifteen  hundred  feet  to  sentinel  the 
narrow  harbor  gate.  It  is — as  I heard  an  American 
say  of  the  backward  look  toward  Rio  as  the  train 
climbs  to  Petropolis — as  though  one  had  been  taken 
up  into  that  exceeding  high  mountain  to  see  “the 
kingdoms  of  the  world  and  the  glory  of  them.” 

Another  way  is  to  go  down,  as  people  went  to  the 
Pan-American  Conference  in  1906,  and,  wrapped  in 
the  usual  North  American  ignorance  of  Latin  Amer- 
ica, and  with  nothing  to  dim  the  comparison,  sud- 
denly have  flashed  on  one  the  Aladdin’s  Lamp  Avenida 
— built  by  tearing  down  a two-hundred-foot  passage 
through  the  heart  of  the  town — the  majestic  sweep  of 
the  esplanade,  and  all  the  other  municipal  wonders 
about  which  so  many  correspondents  wrote  so  much 
and  so  feelingly,  that  I feel  a decided  reticence  in  vent- 
uring to  say  anything  about  this  side  of  Rio  at  all. 

A third  way — and  of  course  this  is  the  real  one — is 
to  spend  enough  time  in  the  tropics  to  insulate  one’s 
nerves  against  our  avid  desire  to  do  something;  to  be 
able  to  sit  in  a sort  of  Buddhistic  vacuity  and  not 
feel  that  one  is  wasting  time.  Coated  with  this  placid 

264 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


equatorial  film,  one  would  be  ready  to  settle  down  in 
some  airy  'pension,  with  a window  looking  out  over  the 
indigo  bay  toward  the  Sugarloaf  and  Nictheroy,  to 
know  and  understand  Rio.  I knew  a man  who  had 
attained  this  blest  nirvana  and  after  a fortnight’s 
teaching,  I could  sit  with  him,  silent  and  content,  for 
quarter  hours  at  a time. 

“Buena’  noces ,”  I would  mumble  in  a far-away 
voice,  dropping  in  of  an  evening. 

“Buena’  noces,”  he  would  murmur  out  of  the  twi- 
light, and  then  we  would  lapse  into  the  cataleptic 
state,  sprawled  in  easy-chairs,  satisfied  to  watch  the 
glow  of  our  cigarettes.  If  Rio  could  do  that  in  a few 
days  and  make  New  York’s  unconscious  violence,  for 
the  first  day  or  two  after  getting  home,  seem  actually 
a joke,  it  is  easy  enough  to  see  how  Rio  might  fascinate 
one  who  had  lived  long  enough  there  to  get  the  tropics 
into  his  blood — until  the  heat  and  dust  and  smells  of 
it,  the  laziness  and  throaty  Portuguese,  the  very  things 
that  get  on  a gringo’s  nerves,  would  become  like  the 
lights  of  home. 

The  way  not  to  be  wholly  carried  away  by  Rio — 
and  this  is  why  I began  to  describe  Brazil  by  mention- 
ing the  capital  of  Argentina — is  to  go  there  by  way 
of  the  West  Coast,  to  weather  the  tropics  once  and 
return  to  a “white  man’s  country,”  then  make  the 
anticlimatic  regression,  and  to  find  one’s  self  set  down 
in  this  dusty,  stifling,  ill-arranged  town,  with  the  viva- 
cious lights  of  Buenos  Aires,  a thousand  miles  behind, 
twinkling  through  a cool  Argentine  night. 

265 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


The  spoiled  traveller  is  promptly  attacked  by  all 
those  foolish  irritations  which  a city  man  meets  in 
venturing  into  the  provinces.  He  is  tireless  in  hunting 
out  things  to  fret  about.  The  language  he  abhors. 
Fancy  calling  St.  John,  or  San  Juan,  Sao  Joao — which 
he  insists  on  mispronouncing  “Sow  Wow!”  After  the 
clean-cut  Spanish — precise  of  all  things — the  throaty 
sing-song  Portuguese  seems  mere  slovenliness.  All  the 
just-around-the-corner-comforts  of  a city  seem  to 
have  disappeared.  Collars  wilt  like  wax,  but  nobody 
knows  of  a laundry.  Buenos  Aires’s  cheap  little  vic- 
torias have  given  way  to  cabs  more  expensive  than 
those  of  New  York.  Everything  costs  about  twice 
what  it  did  in  the  larger  capital.  Everything  from  a 
cigar  to  a railroad  ticket  carries — and  costs — its  rev- 
enue stamp,  and  you  pay  in  stage-money  made  of 
wretched  French  paper  that  tears  in  two  if  you  look 
at  it.  There  is  no  really  good  hotel,  lovely  as  is  the 
view  from  some  of  them.  The  street-car  conductor 
doesn’t  know  where  the  post-office  is,  the  postal  clerk 
can’t  find  one’s  letters,  although  they’re  lying  in  the 
jposte  restante,  and  the  languid  policeman,  unable  to 
understand  pigeon-Spanish,  merely  grunts  and  walks 
gloomily  away.  In  short,  until  somebody  invites  you 
to  spend  a cool  mountain  night  at  Petropolis,  you 
are  in  imminent  danger  of  concluding,  during  those 
first  few  hours,  that  this  city  of  six  hundred  thousand 
people  is  a huge,  hot,  overgrown  village,  inefficient  and 
half-alive. 

Unfair  as  such  a judgment  is,  yet  I am  not  sure  that 

2GG 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


seeing  Rio  in  terms  of  Buenos  Aires  isn’t  the  simplest 
way  to  set  it  in  its  place  and  suggest  its  personality. 
For  Rio  is,  first  of  all,  a city  of  the  tropics.  And  it  is 
as  such,  and  not  for  what  it  has  accomplished  in  twen- 
tieth century  utilitarianism,  that  it — and  Brazil  also — 
is  most  interesting.  Much  may  be  said  of  these  accom- 
plishments— the  growth  of  trade,  the  new  docks,  sani- 
tation, the  new  Avenida,  for  which  six  hundred  houses 
were  torn  down  and  which  now  stretches  for  nearly  two 
miles  as  depressingly  new  and  perfect  as  the  newest 
plaisance  of  our  newest  world’s  fair.  There’s  the  famous 
old  Rua  Ouvidor,  narrow,  dark,  and  vivacious,  where 
you  may  see,  as  the  saying  goes,  everybody  who  is  any- 
body in  Brazil.  It  was  not  built,  but  just  grew,  and  is 
very  interesting,  but  an  antique  compared  with  the 
Calle  Florida.  The  usual  ’banality  of  “electric  lights, 
telephones  and  trolley-cars”  can  be  tacked  to  Rio  as 
vociferously  as  may  be,  the  “Jornal  do  Commercio”  and 
“Jornal  do  Brazil”  print  as  much  cable  and  home 
news  as  the  best  papers  of  Buenos  Aires,  but  their 
huge  blanket  sheets  and  small  type  seem  odd  and  old- 
fashioned  compared  with  the  crisp  modernity  of  “La 
Prensa,”  “El  Diario”or  “La  Nacion.” 

The  same  reservation  must  be  made  about  most 
things  Brazilian.  Over  all  is  cast  a spell,  the  union,  as 
it  would  seem,  of  that  sombre  Portuguese  temperament 
and  the  tropical  languor,  and  the  present  seems  vaguely 
antique  and  old.  “We  are  archives  of  archaic  institu- 
tions with  modern  etiquettes,”  observes  the  author  of 
“A  America  Latina,”  “a  modern  glossary  designating 

2G7 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


an  obsolete  world” — and  this  comment  on  South 
American  societies,  in  general,  applies  far  more  to 
Brazil  than  to  the  Argentine. 

Before  the  things  seen  and  heard  and  vaguely  felt, 
the  endless  procession  of  vague,  unrelated  things  that 
baffle  and  allure — semi-antique  humans  living  lan- 
guidly in  the  midst  of  a sun-drenched  nature  which, 
by  its  very  luxuriance,  might  seem  to  have  overpow- 
ered them — Latin  sensibility  tinged  with  African  super- 
stition— vast  forests  with  giant  butterflies  floating  in 
the  breathless  air — negro  coachmen  in  top-boots,  such 
as  Puss-in-Boots  might  have  worn — dusky,  velvet- 
eyed donzellas — palms,  blazing  walls  and  indigo  sea — 
one  loses  interest  in  railroads  and  power  plants  and  the 
things  we  do  better  at  home.  Brazilians  must  interest 
themselves  in  these  things,  for  therein  lies  their  salva- 
tion. If  I seem  to  neglect  them  it  is  because  it  seems 
absurd  to  visit  a conservatory  full  of  orchids  and  spend 
one’s  time  seeing  how  the  steam-pipes  are  put  in. 

By  the  same  token  there  is  a certain  mellowed  dig- 
nity in  the  Brazilian  scene — the  natural  inheritance  of 
the  empire,  and  doubtless,  also,  a reaction  of  race  and 
climate — lacking  in  the  more  energetic  and  modern 
Argentina.  It  was  only  in  1889  that  good  Dom  Pedro 
— that  kindly,  cultured,  old-school  gentleman — was 
dethroned  and  shipped  off  to  Portugal.  It  is  only  since 
1887  that  the  negroes  ceased  to  be  slaves.  Brazil’s 
foremost  statesman,  the  big-necked,  able  Minister  of 
Foreign  Affairs  who,  as  he  moved  amongst  his  slender 
Caribbean  brethren  at  the  190G  Conference,  looked 

2GS 


The  Rua  Ouvidor,  the  principal  business  street  in  Rio. 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


like  the  senior  partner  of  some  old  firm  of  Wall 
Street  bankers,  is  still  called  “Baron”  Rio  Branco. 
You  can  still  see  in  Petropolis  the  house  of  the  Princess 
Regent  and  her  husband  the  Conde  d’Eu,  overgrown 
somewhat  with  vegetation  and  buried  in  sombre  shade. 
Rio’s  great  public  library  was  started  by  King  Joao 
VI,  himself,  when  the  Portuguese  court  was  trans- 
ferred to  Brazil  in  1808. 

There  is  still  a suggestion  of  the  Old  World  and  the 
grand  manner.  They  have  their  Academy  of  Forty 
Immortals,  their  politicians  are  often  pleased  to  prac- 
tise the  politer  arts.  Senhor  Joachim  Nabuco,  who 
presided  at  the  Conference  and  who  may  be  seen  any  of 
these  fine  afternoons  driving  down  Connecticut  Ave- 
nue in  Washington,  has  written  his  “Pensees.  ” These 
litterateurs  may  be,  as  Senhor  Bomfim  suggests  in 
“A  America  Latina,”  “inveterate  rhetoricians  whose 
abundant  works  are  taken  as  proof  of  genius.”  Yet  at 
least  they  have  a certain  way  with  them.  Pompous, 
grave,  they  go  through  the  solemn  motions.  In  spite 
of  the  vast  majority  who  neither  read  nor  write,  Bra- 
zilians of  the  upper  ruling  class  are  probably  more 
“cultured,”  in  the  narrow  literary  sense  of  the  word, 
than  our  average  men  of  the  same  class  at  home.  They 
speak  and  write  French  as  a matter  of  course  in  addi- 
tion to  their  owTn  language,  and  most  of  them  make 
fair  headway  with  English.  They  enjoy  and  encour- 
age music  and  painting  and  poetry.  Opera  not  only 
comes  to  Rio  each  winter,  as  it  does  to  Buenos  Aires, 
but  they  have  their  National  Institute  of  Music  and 

269 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


their  native  composers,  one  of  whom,  especially,  the 
late  Carlos  Gomez,  has  heard  his  operas  successfully 
produced  in  Europe.  They  have  their  National  Acad- 
emy of  Fine  Arts  and  a gallery  which,  I am  sure,  is 
visited  and  appreciated  by  a great  many  more  people 
than  ever  surprise  themselves  by  entering  the  really 
excellent  one  tucked  away,  upstairs,  in  Buenos  Aires’s 
Calle  Florida. 

The  annual  salon  was  opened  the  afternoon  we 
sailed  and  I just  had  time  to  look  in  before  going  to  the 
steamer.  An  orchestra  played  with  quaint  dignity  in 
the  lower  entrance,  and  within,  in  a humid  odor  of 
dresses  and  perfume,  was  a crowd — ceremonious  old 
gentlemen  with  leathery  faces,  dark-eyed,  sensitive- 
looking youths,  nice  little  girls  and  their  older  sisters, 
dusky  sometimes,  white  with  powder  and  wearing 
dangling  crescent  earrings — such  a crowd  as  I saw  at 
other  semi-public  gatherings  in  Rio — not  brilliant, 
yet  with  a certain  quiet  at-homeness  and  dignity 
often  missed  in  the  Argentine  capital.  They  had  the 
air  of  having  done  this  thing  many  times  before.  Ev- 
erybody showed  his  little  ticket,  and,  having  none,  I 
walked  on  until  stopped  by  a guard  with  a musket. 
I murmured  some  foolish  sentence  about  being  a vis- 
itor from  North  America  and  instantly  he  smiled  and 
bowed.  “Ah,  senhor!”  he  said,  “Norte  Americano!” 
and  bowed  me  in.  It  was  the  open  sesame  which  had 
unlocked  so  many  doors  during  the  summer — a Latin- 
American  courtesy  which  made  pleasing  even  some  of 
the  water-colors  of  the  younger  Brazilian  Rafaels,  with 

270 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

signatures  splashed  across  their  corners  which  could  be 
read  clear  across  the  room. 

Pleasant  human  oases  like  this,  the  loveliness  which 
is  visible  from  the  Corcovado  or  to  any  discriminating 
bird,  Rio  has,  but  of  the  stern  impressiveness  of  a great 
city  nothing.  She  lies  there  in  the  sun,  like  one  of  her 
own  mestizos , indolently  reclining,  amidst  palms  and 
gardens,  on  the  meandering  foothills.  Laxity  and 
smiling  indifference,  bodily  and  moral,  is  in  the  air. 
From  the  bleak  whiteness  of  Monroe  Palace,  where 
the  Pan-American  Conference  met,  the  main  street 
led  through  a region  of  Venetian  blinds,  from  behind 
which  at  almost  any  hour — in  French,  in  Spanish  and 
Portuguese,  in  broken  English — the  passer-by  was 
invited  to  come  in.  The  same  sort  of  a thorough- 
fare led  up  to  this  very  Academy  of  Fine  Arts,  down 
which  the  ceremonious  old  gentlemen,  their  gentle 
daughters  and  little  grand-daughters  walked  that 
afternoon.  On  the  news-stands,  side  by  side  with  the 
grave  “ Jornal  do  Comer  cio,”  lay  “0  Rio  Nu” — “Rio 
Without  Clothes” — calculated  to  send  a Broadway 
policeman  bounding  after  the  reserves. 

The  same  cheerful  obliquity  characterizes  the  Rio 
music-halls — it  was  the  one  across  the  street  from  the 
Conference  building,  as  it  happened,  which  was  one  of 
the  few  I saw  in  South  America  whose  depravity  was 
witty  enough  to  furnish  its  own  excuse.  And  that,  I 
suppose,  was  because  the  company  was  French.  They 
called  their  review  “Pan!  ga  y est,”  and  everything  in 
the  air  of  Rio  was  parodied  therein.  It  began  tire- 

271 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


somely.  The  audience  grew  restless  and  a man  finally 
rose  in  the  back  of  the  parquet  and  began  to  protest. 
He  was  one  of  those  self-important,  earnest  little  men 
who  is  bound  to  get  his  rights.  Everybody  could  see 
that  and  they  turned  and  encouraged  him  with  grins 
and  sympathetic  murmurs.  Holding  his  stick  firmly, 
like  the  honest  householder  he  seemed  to  be,  he  called 
for  “Monsieur  le  directeur ” and  having  brought  that 
functionary,  tremendously  agitated,  out  from  the 
wings,  he  declared  that,  for  himself  and  on  behalf  of 
the  audience,  he  wished  to  protest. 

The  programme  had  announced,  “Monsieur  le 
di^deur”  himself  had  promised,  that  they  would  give 
an  entertainment  full  of  liveliness,  of  a piquancy  and 
wit.  And  look  at  this — these  inane  Japanese  dancers 
toddling  about  in  kimonos.  Mon  Dieu,  Monsieur! 
This  is  unfair!  It  is  not  to  be  borne ! 

The  manager,  suave  and  solicitous,  lifted  his  shoul- 
ders and  pressed  his  hands  to  his  heart.  Monsieur 
spoke  truly.  They  had  promised  an  entertainment 
full  of  life,  of  verve,  of  sparkle.  They  were  desolated 
to  have  bored  the  audience.  On  behalf  of  himself  and 
the  company  he  would  do  everything  in  his  power  to 
please.  Was  it  possible  that  the  interesting  things 
Monsieur  failed  to  see  on  the  stage  might  be  found 
behind  the  scenes  in  the  dressing-rooms  of  Mesdemoi- 
selles  les  artistes.  . . . Would  Monsieur  but  come — for 
he  and  the  company  prostrated  themselves  in  the 
effort  to  please — derriere  les  coulisses  and  see?  What? 
Truly?  Ah — a thousand  thanks!  Indeed  he  would 

272 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


come.  Como  no!  Assuredly,  yes!  Enchante!  Con 
muchissimo  gusto!  And  forthwith  the  honest  house- 
holder tramped  round  behind  the  scenes,  the  audience 
delighted,  and  not  yet  aware  that  this  was  part  of  the 
play.  The  curtain  rolled  up,  disclosing  the  stage  set 
as  a dressing-room,  and,  sure  enough,  there  were  mes- 
demoiselles  les  artistes,  just  beginning  to  dress  for  their 
parts.  The  honest  householder  dropped  his  stick,  be- 
came at  once  one  of  the  most  active  performers,  and 
as  for  lack  of  liveliness  there  was  no  further  cause  for 
complaint. 

Of  the  various  manifestations  of  atmospheric  laxity 
none  is  more  interesting  to  a North  American  than  the 
haziness  of  the  color-line.  This  land  of  coffee  and  sun- 
shine is  a land  tinged  with  African  blood.  Of  the  sev- 
enteen and  a half  millions  of  people  in  the  country  only 
some  six  millions  are  whites.  There  were  750,000 
slaves  in  Brazil  when  the  Princess  Regent  emanci- 
pated them  in  1887,  and  there  are  neighborhoods  where 
the  negro  problem  is  a problem  only  in  so  far  as  life 
may  be  a problem  to  Africans  in  their  native  jungles. 
You  go  ashore,  for  instance,  to  buy  cigars  at  Bahia. 
It  was  a great  place  in  the  old  slave  days,  before  the 
centre  of  industry  moved  down  to  Sao  Paulo,  is  a fine 
place  still,  with  its  tall  stage-scenery  buildings,  painted 
white  or  pinkish  or  pale  blue,  the  fronts — an  echo  of 
the  Dutch  visitation  of  long  ago — often  decorated  with 
tiles.  You  climb  the  narrow  winding  streets  to  the 
upper  town,  looking  out  on  the  turquoise  sea.  Every- 
where are  negroes — huge  women,  with  enormous  choc- 

273 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


olate-colored  arms,  in  white  cotton  wrappers  and  tur- 
bans. They  come  swinging  down  the  cobblestones, 
squat  beside  their  fruits  and  green  parrots,  lean  out  of 
ground-floor  windows  smoking  fat  black  cigars.  Try 
to  take  a photograph  of  one  and  her  broad,  shining  face 
clouds  over  with  fear  of  the  unknown,  and  up  goes  her 
apron  over  her  head.  In  the  cool  interiors  of  these 
houses,  with  spotless  patios  and  doorways,  white  folks 
doubtless  there  must  be,  hiding  from  the  sun,  but  one 
rarely  sees  them.  Eighty  per  cent,  of  the  inhabitants 
are  negroes.  You  feel  as  though  you  were  walking 
through  a deserted  white  man’s  city  held  by  a black 
army  of  occupation. 

About  one-third  of  Rio’s  population  are  negroes. 
From  blacks  who  might  have  been  landed  from  a slave- 
ship  yesterday  the  African  tinge  fades  out  through 
every  gradation  of  mixed  blood  up  to  that  of  the  cul- 
tured whites  of  the  ruling  class.  There  is,  in  fact,  al- 
most no  color-line  at  all;  comparatively  few  families 
into  at  least  some  of  whose  members  has  not  crept  a 
shadow  of  the  darker  blood. 

There  was  a great  ball  one  night  at  the  Club  dos 
Diarios,  while  I wTas  in  Rio,  for  the  Pan-American  dele- 
gates who  were  about  returning  home.  This  is  the 
solid,  respectable  old  club  of  the  capital;  all  Rio  was 
there,  and  if  not  as  austerely  magnificent  as  the  ball 
given  in  the  Palace  of  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs — 
Itamaraty — a few  nights  later,  it  was  yet  a very  repre- 
sentative picture  of  Brazilian  society.  There  were 
some  of  the  same  nice  old  gentlemen  and  their  sweet, 

274 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


gentle-looking  daughters  that  I saw  at  the  art  gallery, 
and  over  it  all  that  same  air  of  homeiness,  so  to  speak, 
of  a society  older,  more  staid  and  to  the  manner  born 
than  would  have  gathered  for  a similar  occasion  in  the 
more  brilliant  Buenos  Aires.  The  young  men,  as  a rule, 
were  sedate  and  capable-looking,  and  there  was  a restful 
absence  of  that  Byronic-broker  type  so  frequent  in 
Buenos  Aires,  of  toilettes  that  ambitiously  proclaimed 
themselves  “creations.”  If  there  were  few  to  gape  at, 
nearly  all  had  ease  and  an  air  of  doing  quietly  something 
to  which  they  were  accustomed.  And  gliding  about 
in  the  waltz,  as  well-dressed  and  at  ease  and  as 
charming  as  any  there,  were  young  women  who 
showed,  almost  plainly  enough  to  be  called  mulattoes, 
the  marks  of  their  negro  blood. 

It  is  not  only  there,  but  there  is  so  little  prejudice 
against  it,  that  the  most  scholarly  Brazilians  often 
maintain  that  the  mixture  has  been  beneficial  and  has 
resulted  in  a type  better  suited  to  the  Brazilian  environ- 
ment than  either  of  the  original  stocks.  They  flatly 
contradict  Agassiz  and  the  other  northern  biologists. 
The  mestizo  is  lazy,  sensual,  cruel,  lacking  in  the  power 
of  concentrated  and  original  thought,  but  they  ask, 
How  does  this  prove  degeneracy?  The  type  may  not  be 
ideal,  but  were  you  to  compare  it,  not  with  the  best 
type  of  Englishman  or  Spaniard,  but  with  its  progen- 
itors, the  African  slave  and  the  lawless  adventurer, 
would  you  not  find  it  an  advance  rather  than  a retro- 
gression ? The  mestizo,  they  urge,  is  not  analogous  to 
those  mixtures  which  produce  hybrids.  There  is  no 

275  . 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


physical  trait  which  proves  degeneracy,  and  as  for  his 
intellect,  is  the  mule,  for  instance,  any  less  intelligent 
than  the  horse  or  the  donkey?  To  the  solemn,  deter- 
mined Portuguese  the  African  has  brought  a cheerful 
sensuousness  which,  they  believe,  mellows  and  quick- 
ens his  intellectuality,  and  they  point  to  the  fact  that 
most  Brazilian  musicians  and  artists  have  been  mes- 
tizos. Whatever  one’s  own  notions  may  be — and  I 
am  attempting  no  more  here  than  to  show  the  Bra- 
zilian point  of  view — one  cannot  escape  becoming  in- 
terested in  opinions,  apparently  backed  up  by  some 
evidence,  startlingly  different  from  ideas  accepted  as 
final  at  home. 

This  Africanism  has  tinged  religion  and  language, 
and  contributed,  undoubtedly,  with  the  climate  and 
environment,  to  produce  that  mingling  of  melancholy, 
superstition  and  sensibility,  now  gloomily  savage,  now 
acutely  sentimental  to  the  point  of  being  morbid,  which 
is  common  in  Brazilian  literature  and  poetry.  Even 
without  it  people  could  not  live  under  the  brooding 
influence  of  such  a land  without  getting  something  of 
its  sombre  mystery  and  creepy  beauty  into  their  blood. 
There  is  a passage  in  Senhor  Gra<ja  Aranha’s  novel 
“Chanaan”  so  full  of  this  Brazilian  feeling  that  it  is 
worth  quoting,  even  in  a shambling  translation,  and 
aside  from  the  fact  that  it  illustrates  the  sort  of  thing 
that  makes  a writer  famous  in  Brazil.  Everybody  was 
talking  about  “Chanaan” — which  is  Portuguese  for 
“Canaan” — when  I was  in  Rio,  and  it  was  still  so  new 
that  the  distinguished  Academician,  its  author,  could 

276 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


be  induced  to  read  selections  to  appreciative  listeners 
after  dinner  without  the  slightest  difficulty.  The  most 
famous  of  these  was  the  one  about  the  “vagalumes”  or 
fireflies.  The  poor  young  girl,  Maria,  deserted  by  her 
faithless  lover  at  the  moment  she  needed  him  most, 
had  wandered  for  several  days,  jeered  at  and  turned 
away  from  one  door  after  another,  until,  overpowered 
with  bodily  fatigue  and  morbid  imagining,  she  came 
at  nightfall  to  a forest.  Its  gloomy  depths  attracted 
her,  hunted  animal  that  she  felt  herself  to  be,  even 
while  she  shivered  at  the  look  of  it: 

“Within  that  shadowy  interior  came  and  went 
enormous  butterflies,  azure  and  dark  gray,  in  incessant 
glistening  flight.  Exhausted,  Maria  sank  down,  with- 
out the  courage  to  enter,  without  the  strength  to  flee, 
fascinated  by  that  sombre  and  melancholy  world. 
Her  hands,  limp  and  trembling,  let  fall  the  little  bundle 
of  clothes.  Faint,  friendless,  frightened,  wrapped  in 
the  darkness  of  night,  she  shrank  between  the  great 
roots  of  a tree,  and  with  dilated  eyes,  ears  alert,  listened 
to  the  murmur  and  whisper  of  things.  . . . 

“The  darkness  deepened,  issuing  forth  from  the 
tangled  verdure  like  the  impalpable,  vaporous  breath 
of  the  earth  itself.  To  her  perturbed  imagination  it 
seemed  as  though  all  nature  were  trying  to  overpower 
her  and  crush  out  her  breath.  The  shadows  grew 
darker.  Great  swollen  clouds  rolled  down  the  sky 
toward  the  abyss  of  the  horizon.  In  the  open,  in  the 
vague  glimmer  of  twilight,  all  things  took  the  form 
of  monsters.  The  mountains,  rising  menacingly,  as- 

277 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


sumed  terrifying  shapes.  The  paths,  spreading  into 
the  distance,  animated  themselves  into  infinite  serpents. 
The  solitary  trees  moaned  in  the  wind  like  fantastic 
mourners  about  the  corpse  of  nature.  The  night-birds 
began  to  sing  their  mournful  songs.  Maria  tried  to 
run  away,  but  her  worn-out  limbs  would  not  respond  to 
the  impulse  of  fear  and  she  sank  down,  hopeless. 

“The  first  fireflies  commenced,  in  the  darker  depths 
of  the  forest,  to  swing  their  divine  lamps.  Above,  the 
stars  began  to  sparkle  faintly,  one  after  one.  The 
glowworms  multiplied,  in  the  foliage,  imperceptibly 
appearing,  silent  and  innumerable,  spreading  over  the 
tree-trunks  as  if  their  roots  had  flashed  into  points  of 
light.  The  unfortunate  girl,  overcome  by  a complete 
torpor,  little  by  little  sank  away  to  sleep.  . . . 

“The  undefined  terrors  of  early  darkness  disap- 
peared as  the  night  grew.  The  vague  and  indistinct 
outlines  now  took  on  a limpid  reality.  The  mountains 
stood  out  calmly  in  their  perpetual  immobility,  the 
occasional  trees  in  the  open  lost  their  aspect  of  gro- 
tesque phantoms.  All  things  became  impassive  and 
still.  . . . 

“The  fireflies  came  thicker  and  thicker.  Myriads 
of  them  covered  the  tree-trunks,  which  began  to 
glisten  as  though  studded  with  diamonds  and  topazes. 
It  was  a blinding  and  glorious  illumination  there  in 
the  heart  of  the  tropical  forest.  And  the  glowworms’ 
fires  spread  out  in  green  radiance,  above  which  shim- 
mered layers  of  light  waves — yellow,  orange,  and  soft 
blue.  . . . 


278 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


“The  figures  of  the  trees  began  to  stand  out  in  a 
zodiacal  phosphorescence.  Fireflies  encrusted  them- 
selves in  the  leaves  and  here,  there,  and  beyond,  against 
the  dark  background,  scintillated  emeralds,  sapphires, 
rubies,  amethysts  and  the  other  jewels  which  guard 
particles  of  eternal  color  in  their  hearts.  Under  the 
spell  of  this  light  the  world  sank  into  religious  silence. 
The  mournful  cries  of  the  night-birds  could  no  longer  be 
heard;  the  restless  wind  died  down.  And  everywhere 
that  beneficent  tranquillity  of  light.  . . . Maria  was 
surrounded  by  the  fireflies  which  began  to  cover  the 
trunk  of  the  tree  at  whose  foot  she  slept.  As  her  im- 
mobility was  absolute,  they  girdled  her  in  a golden, 
triumphal  halo,  and  against  the  luminous  forest  the 
flesh  of  the  woman,  pallid  and  transparent,  was  like 
opal  enclosed  in  the  green  heart  of  an  emerald.  The 
glowworms,  too,  began  to  cover  her.  Her  rags  disap- 
peared in  an  infinite  profusion  of  sparks,  and  the  un- 
fortunate girl,  clothed  with  fireflies,  sleeping  imper- 
turbably as  if  touched  by  a divine  death,  seemed  about 
to  depart  for  some  mystic  festival  in  the  sky,  for  a 
marriage  with  God.  . . . 

“And  the  fireflies  descended  in  greater  quantity 
over  her,  like  tears  of  the  stars.  An  azure  radiance 
shone  round  her  face,  crept  gradually  over  her  arms, 
hands,  neck  and  hair,  enveloping  her  in  harmless  fire. 
Thicker  and  thicker  came  the  glowworms  as  if  the 
foliage  were  disintegrating  into  a pulverization  of  light 
and  falling  about  her  body  to  bury  it  in  a magic  tomb. 
Once,  the  young  girl,  restless,  moved  her  head  slightly 

279 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


and  opened  her  eyes.  All  about  her  the  fireflies  flashed 
their  colored  lightnings.  Maria  thought  that  a dream 
had  taken  her  up  into  the  heart  of  a star,  and  she  sank 
back  to  sleep  again  on  the  luminous  bosom  of  the 
earth.  . . . 

"The  silence  of  the  night  was  perturbed  by  the  first 
breezes,  messengers  of  dawn.  The  stars  abandoned  the 
sky,  the  glowworms  began  to  fade  and  hide  themselves 
under  the  leaves  so  that  their  pale  lamps,  mingling 
with  the  whiteness  of  the  growing  day,  became  dull 
and  colorless.  In  the  tree  below  which  Maria  slept  the 
birds  began  to  twitter.  The  song  became  louder, 
everything  began  to  be  bathed  in  light.  Noises  could 
be  heard,  and  a heavy  perfume,  concentrated  during 
the  night,  began  to  diffuse  itself  over  this  awakening 
world.  ...” 

No  class  of  people,  I suppose,  falls  less  under  the 
Brazilian  spell  than  those  whose  day’s  work  might 
reasonably  be  supposed  to  draw  them  into  it — the 
representatives  of  foreign  governments,  especially  the 
Europeans,  accredited  to  Brazil.  This  Brahmin  caste 
foregathers  in  Petropolis,  that  hanging  garden,  as  it 
were,  set  on  a mountain  top,  two  hours’  journey, 
actually,  from  Rio,  and  as  far  in  spirit,  as  prejudice 
and  diplomatic  insularity  can  set  it,  from  things  Bra- 
zilian. Every  afternoon  suburbanites  of  the  politer 
sorts  take  the  steamer  thitherward — very  much  such 
a ride  as  the  Monmouth’s  passengers  take  from  Forty- 
second  Street  down  to  the  Highlands — except  that 
Rio’s  harbor  is  generally  still  as  an  Adirondack  lake, 

280 


One  corner  of  the  Harbor  of  Rio. 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


blue  as  indigo,  and  shrouded  in  sunshot  haze.  A few 
old  gentlemen  play  chess  with  pocket  chess-boards, 
an  ambassador’s  wife  and  the  daughter  of  some  Bra- 
zilian cabinet  officer — herself  a bit  supercilious  toward 
things  Brazilian — languidly  converse  in  French,  the 
men  talk  coffee  and  the  rate  of  exchange,  and  the 
muggy  air  of  Rio  blows  behind.  From  the  landing 
there  is  another  hour  by  train,  much  of  which  is  a 
climb  by  cog-road  up  three  thousand  feet  to  the  cool- 
ness of  mountain  air.  Above  the  tree-tops  the  train 
pants  its  way,  at  so  steep  an  ascent  that  from  the  top 
on  a clear  day  you  can  look  backward  all  the  way  to 
Rio.  These  mountains  are  gashed  and  tumbled  by  the 
same  power  that  put  the  Sugarloaf  in  the  harbor,  the 
slopes  soft  with  the  velvety  green  of  the  tropical  trees. 
There  may  be  as  wonderful  views,  but  they  are  few — 
this  eagle’s  eye  vision  of  wooded  slopes  tumbling  down 
and  down  to  the  sea,  the  turquoise  bay  beyond,  and 
beyond,  in  its  golden  haze,  the  sombre  Sugarloaf  and 
the  walls  of  Rio. 

It  was  an  inspiration  of  Dom  Pedro’s  to  build  a town 
up  here — an  idea  quite  typical  of  the  Brazilians  of  to- 
day, who  built  the  Avenida  Central  and  the  made-to- 
order  capital,  Bello  Horizonte.  Ouro  Preto  had  been 
the  capital  of  the  State  of  Minas  Geraes,  but  the  pow- 
ers didn’t  like  Ouro  Preto.  There  was  no  sign  of  a town 
in  the  valley  of  Bello  Horizonte,  nor  railway  into  it,  nor 
was  it  the  centre  of  any  industry,  but  it  was  a beautiful 
valley  and  forthwith  it  was  made  the  site.  Govern- 
ment buildings,  theatres,  barracks,  water-supply — a 

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THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


whole  city  had  to  be  laboriously  built.  It  took  much 
money,  and  for  several  years  the  work  had  to  pause 
while  more  was  collected,  but  it  was  done  at  last,  in 
1898,  and  the  government  transferred  thither. 

Petropolis,  with  its  villas  and  vines  and  gardens, 
reminds  one  somewhat  of  a German  watering-place 
without  the  water — although  a brook  in  a masonry 
channel  does  bisect  the  main  street — a secluded,  quiet 
place,  so  cool  at  night,  even  when  Rio  is  melting,  that 
an  overcoat  is  often  comfortable.  Here  the  diplomats 
cloister  themselves,  and  play  tennis  and  dine  at  each 
other’s  houses  and  rack  their  brains  over  whether  to 
hang  the  flag  at  half-mast  for  the  death  of  the  King  of 
Italpazak,  or  all  the  wray  up  in  honor  of  the  Queen  of 
Holland’s  birthday,  wThen  these  events  occur  on  the 
same  day.  They  see  and  think  as  little  as  possible  of 
Brazilians  and  Brazil.  One  hears  much  about  the  de- 
nationalization of  Brazil,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that 
most  of  the  foreign  representatives  wTere  doing  all  they 
could  to  alienate  native  sympathy  and  to  keep  their 
own  countrymen  away.  One  of  the  embarrassments 
of  dinner-giving  was  that  of  seating  guests  so  that  the 
Minister  from  Ruritania  or  some  other  world-power 
wouldn’t  be  put  beside  some  Brazilian  he  would  refuse 
to  talk  to,  and  the  night  before  the  ball  at  Itamaraty 
I heard  one  of  these  quaint  gentlemen  playfully  boast- 
ing that  this  was  the  first  time,  since  he  had  been  sta- 
tioned at  Brazil,  that  he  had  ever  been  inside  the  For- 
eign Office. 

At  Petropolis  and  the  neighboring  Novo  Friburgo 

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RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

Emperor  Dom  Pedro  started  some  of  the  first  of  those 
German  colonies  whose  development  in  the  southern 
part  of  Brazil  is  the  cause  of  so  much  hectic  talk  about 
the  dangers  of  German  aggression.  The  northern  colo- 
nies were  unsuccessful,  their  remnants  make  a bare 
living,  and  their  unkempt  cottages,  with  sickly,  tow- 
headed children  sprawling  round  the  door,  induce, 
somewhat,  the  same  revulsion  of  feeling  as  the  black- 
and-tan  beach-combers  of  the  Caribbean.  In  the 
South,  in  Rio  Grande  do  Sul  and  Santa  Catharina  and 
Parana,  they  have  been  more  successful.  Of  the 
250,000  foreign-born  Germans  in  Brazil — with  their 
descendants  there  are  probably  nearer  400,000 — far 
the  greater  portion  are  here.  Many  of  the  towns  have 
German  names,  German  is  taught  in  the  schools,  and 
the  colonists  settle  down  to  stay  and  retain  fairly 
intact  their  German  customs.  That  the  Portuguese 
Brazilians  regard  this  immigration  with  uneasiness 
there  is  no  doubt.  Their  attitude  is  described  at 
length  in  the  same  novel  from  which  I have  quoted  the 
passage  about  “ vagalumes .” 

“Where,”  asked  Milkau,  the  principal  character, 
looking  over  a roomful  of  German  colonists  at  their 
noonday  meal,  “where  was  that  holy  Germany,  the 
country  of  individualism,  the  quiet  shelter  of  genius? 
In  all  the  faces  was  stamped  one  single  thought,  that 
of  marching  straight  ahead,  with  every  physical 
function  in  perfect  harmony,  in  the  accomplishment 
of  a practical  duty.  ...  In  this  crowd  of  Germans  it 
seemed  as  though  militariness  and  the  racial  obedience 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

and  tenacity  had  ground  down  all  that  might  have 
been  beautiful  and  inspired  to  the  dead  level  of  a sin- 
gle precipitate.  . . . Who  knows,”  he  mused,  “if  two 
spirits  did  not  at  one  time  struggle  to  inhabit  the  same 
body,  the  one  a slave  to  material  things,  covetous, 
grasping ; the  other  winging  its  way  serenely,  ever  up- 
ward, smiling  at  all  things,  men  and  gods  alike,  and, 
disdaining  base  associations,  creating,  in  the  quiet 
regions  of  the  ideal,  the  figures  of  poetry  and  of  dreams  ? 
Who  knowTs  how  long  and  stubborn  the  combat  has 
been?  But  the  demon  of  the  lower  world  has  con- 
quered that  spirit  of  liberty  and  beauty,  and  to-day 
this  body  has  become  torpid,  without  ambition  or 
unrest,  like  a mass  of  slaves  ready  to  devour  the  last 
remnants  of  the  genius  of  the  past — that  divine  source 
from  which  shines  the  light  that  even  now  illuminates 
them  in  their  melancholy  and  devouring  march  over 
the  earth.  . . .” 

Enchanted  with  the  land  itself,  however,  and  a day 
spent  wTith  the  people  who  were  tilling  it,  Milkau,  a 
little  later,  still  an  incorrigible  idealist,  dropped  to 
sleep,  “happy  and  soothed  by  the  mellow  tropic  night, 
in  the  midst  of  these  primitive  men,  lying  on  the  soft, 
strong  bosom  of  this  new  land.  His  doubts  gradually 
faded  away  and  in  his  dreams  a new  horizon  opened, 
expanding  quietly,  and  he  saw  a new  race  which  would 
know  a happiness  none  other  had  experienced,  which 
would  repeople  the  earth  and  found  a city  free  to 
all  and  shared  by  all,  wThere  the  light  would  never 
go  out,  slavery  never  exist;  where  life,  easy,  smiling, 

2S4 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

fragrant,  would  be  a perpetual  radiance  of  liberty  and 
love.” 

But  Milkau’s  friend,  Lentz,  himself  a German,  sleep- 
ing alongside,  was  an  imperialist.  And  this  was  what 
he  dreamed:  “ Everywhere  Lentz  saw  the  whites 
spreading  over  the  land  and  expelling  the  darker  race. 
And  he  smiled  proudly  at  that  prospect  of  victory  and 
the  domination  of  his  own  people.  His  disdain  for  the 
mulatto,  for  his  languors,  fatuity  and  fragility,  marred 
the  radiant  vision  which  the  natural  beauties  of  the 
country  had  impressed  on  his  spirit.  . . . This  land 
should  be  the  home  of  immortal  warriors,  these  fecund 
jungles  consecrated  to  the  glory  of  virgins,  radiant  and 
fierce.  It  was  all  a recapitulation  of  ancient  Germany. 
In  his  exaltation  he  saw  the  Germans  arriving,  not  in 
weak  little  invasions  of  slaves  and  traffickers,  not  to 
clear  ground  to  help  mulattoes,  not  to  beg  a property 
defended  by  negro  soldiers.  They  came  now  in  great 
masses;  immense  ships  disembarked  them  all  along 
the  coast.  They  came  with  the  lust  of  possessing  and 
dominating,  with  the  virgin  fierceness  of  barbarians, 
in  infinite  cohorts,  killing  the  lascivious  and  stupid 
natives  who  stained  the  beautiful  land  with  their  tor- 
pidity. They  routed  them  with  sword  and  fire;  they 
spread  over  the  whole  continent,  founding  a new 
empire.  . . . 

“But  above  the  sailing  ships,  above  the  marching 
armies,  an  immense  dark  mass  spread  across  the  sky 
like  a marching  cloud,  transformed  itself  presently 
into  a figure,  gigantic  and  strange,  whose  eye  pierced 

285 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


downward  from  on  high,  enveloping  earth  and  men  in 
a magnetic  and  invincible  force.  And  Lentz  saw,  sus- 
pended over  the  land  of  Brazil,  the  black  eagle  of  Ger- 
many.” 

It  is  a picturesque  vision  and  likely,  perhaps,  to  come 
to  any  unsophisticated,  climate-enervated  Latin  as  he 
hears  of  the  flaxen-haired  invaders,  these  Huns  and 
Vandals  of  to-day.  But  it  is  not  a plausible  one. 
German  imperialists  may  covet  territory  in  South 
America,  but  the  history  of  German  colonization  is 
scarcely  calculated  to  give  Brazilians  any  immediate 
fear  of  denationalization.  The  “ Little  Germany”  of 
southern  Brazil  has  its  German  names  and  customs, 
but  its  people  are  not  those  of  the  Fatherland.  They 
have  lived  half  a century  in  a fertile  land  and  done 
little  to  improve  it.  Their  machines  and  methods  are 
those  of  their  grandfathers.  And  this  part  of  Brazil, 
except  along  the  narrow  coast  strip,  is  comparatively 
temperate.  There  is  a power  stronger  than  mailed 
fists  and  battleships — the  implacable  sun  and  the 
tepid,  slow-sapping  breath  of  the  tropics.  Men  like 
Colonel  Gorgas,  applying  science  and  unlimited  re- 
sources, may  make  their  environment  sanitary,  and 
the  whole  tropic  belt  may  some  day  be  the  home  of 
the  rulers  of  the  world.  But  that  is  a good  many  years 
away,  and  meanwhile,  here  in  this  same  Brazil,  five  or 
six  thousand  Americans,  Canadians  and  Englishmen, 
with  unlimited  money  behind  them,  are  putting  in 
trolley-cars,  telephones,  power  plants  and  building 
factories,  while  Italians,  Portuguese  and  Spaniards,  as 

286 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

far  as  mere  numbers  are  concerned,  quite  dwarf  the 
figures  of  German  immigration.  There  are  about 
1,500,000  Italians  and  1,000,000  Portuguese  in  Brazil. 
Although  the  Germans  flock  to  the  South,  Rio’s  im- 
migration figures  are  not  wholly  unindicative.  For 
the  year  1906  there  were:  Portuguese,  16,795;  Ital- 
ians, 4,318;  Spanish,  4,074;  Turks,  1,110;  Ger- 
mans, 225;  Russians,  195;  French,  105;  Austrians, 
101;  English,  72;  Americans,  29;  other  nationalities, 
119. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  a German  invasion  of  South 
America.  You  will  find  its  scouts  in  every  wilderness, 
its  veterans  and  garrisons  in  every  shipping  port  and 
banking  street  from  the  Caribbean  to  Punta  Arenas. 
You  will  meet  its  capable,  plodding,  earnest  young  men 
on  every  steamer  outward  bound.  They  do  not,  like 
our  young  men,  spend  their  time  laughing  at  the 
“dagoes,”  nor,  like  those  more  capable  colonizers,  our 
English  cousins,  see  everything  through  the  unchang- 
ing eyes  they  brought  with  them  from  Manchester  or 
Glasgow.  They  sit  tight  in  their  steamer-chairs,  study- 
ing grammars  and  phrase-books,  and  when  the  ship 
touches  the  first  port  it  is  they  who  bargain  for  Jones 
and  Tomlinson  in  the  fletero’s  own  tongue.  And  when 
they  wave  a good-by  from  the  heaving  shore-boat,  it 
is  not  the  gringo’s  “So  long,  old  man — see  you  in  God’s 
country  a year  from  now!”  but  it’s  to  settle  down  and 
become  one  of  the  people;  to  live  their  life  and  marry 
their  daughters,  even  although  the  child  of  a future 
generation  may  have  a quaint  kink  in  its  hair.  That, 

287 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

and  not  sky-scraping  eagles,  is  the  real  German  in- 
vasion. 

The  improvident  North  American  has  not,  as  yet, 
learned  to  do  these  things.  He  will  not  bother  to  pack 
goods,  nor  subordinate  his  own  to  others’  tastes,  nor 
arrange  payments  to  suit  Latin-American  customs. 
And  a good  many  futile  oratorical  tears  are  shed  over 
these  deficiencies.  Young  gentlemen  of  Germany  or 
England  don’t  bury  themselves  in  Latin-American 
wildernesses  because  they  like  it — at  least  not  perma- 
nently. They  go  because  they  must,  because  life  is 
too  crowded  a race  at  home.  Germans  do  not  pack 
ordinary  merchandise  as  though  it  were  spun  glass 
merely  because  it  amuses  them,  but  because  they  must 
have  a market  and  it  interests  them  to  have  their 
goods  arrive  at  that  market  in  usable  condition.  They 
happen  to  know  that  South  American  lighters  are 
merely  flat  barges,  into  which  bags,  bales,  barrels  and 
cases  of  all  shapes  and  weights  are  dumped  promis- 
cuously, and  their  packing  is  designed  to  survive  the 
three  or  four  such  necessary  ordeals,  the  banging 
against  the  ship’s  side  as  the  ship  rolls  in  the  off-shore 
swells  and  the  crash  of  the  cement  barrel  which,  as  the 
ropes  arc  loosened,  comes  tumbling  down  over  fifteen 
or  twenty  feet  of  jumbled  cargo  to  the  bottom  of  the 
pile.  When  Americans  need  a foreign  market  as  much 
as  Englishmen  do  they,  too,  may  learn  to  pack  like 
Germans.  Much  of  the  lamenting  over  our  lack  of 
South  American  trade  is  like  weeping  over  the  lot  of 
our  prairie  farmers  of  a generation  ago  because  they 

288 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 

applied  none  of  the  science  of  the  Belgians  or  Nether- 
landers,  and  merely  took  what  the  virgin  soil  poured 
out  at  their  feet. 

Meanwhile,  because  of  her  coffee,  and  neglecting 
rubber,  cacao,  and  other  things,  Brazil  has  more 
tangible  human  meaning  to  North  Americans  every 
morning  of  the  year  than  any  of  her  sister  republics. 
The  ocean  trail  is  crowded  from  the  Argentine  to  Europe 
because  Europe  needs  Argentine  wheat  and  beef.  No 
such  trail  leads  to  the  States  because  we  grow  our 
own  meat  and  bread.  Chile’s  nitrates,  Bolivia’s  tin, 
Peru’s,  Columbia’s  and  Venezuela’s  cacao  and  cotton 
and  minerals  and  sugar  and  woods  arc,  thus  far, 
trifling  compared  to  that  coffee  stream.  It  is  a rude 
awakening — after  you  have  seen  Callao  and  Valparaiso 
and  rolled  in  the  deep-sea  swells  off  a score  of  West 
Coast  ports,  listening  to  the  squeal  of  the  winch-engines 
and  the  warning  “A-bajo!”  hour  after  hour,  and  be- 
gun to  think  West  Coast  trade  extremely  important 
because  the  sights  and  sounds  and  smells  of  it  have 
become  a part  of  you — it  is  a rude  awakening  to  glance 
over  the  consular  reports. 

Out  of  Rio  harbor  we  sailed  one  afternoon,  on  one 
of  those  very  comfortable  little  steamers  which  some 
of  our  more  feverish  orators  forget  when  they  aver  that 
the  only  way  to  get  to  Brazil  is  to  go  to  Europe  first. 
It  was  sunset  time  and  still.  The  Sugarloaf  rose  like 
a mountain  of  chocolate,  the  waters  were  indigo.  Rio’s 
hills  had  deepened  to  solid  color  out  of  which  the  city 
sparkled  its  firefly  lights  and  behind,  through  the 

289 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


thickening  haze,  the  dull  red  sun  descended  like  the 
turning  down  of  a lamp-wick. 

Northward  we  drowsed,  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
miles,  to  Bahia,  wThere  the  wicked  Brazilian  cigars 
come  from.  Here  we  paused  for  cacao-beans  and 
coffee,  and  in  spite  of  the  talk  about  scarcity  of  boats, 
ours  did  not  carry  even  the  coffee  it  might  because 
the  importers  preferred  to  pour  their’s  into  schooners’ 
holds  like  wheat  rather  than  pay  mail-boat  charges  on 
coffee  in  sacks.  Four  hundred  miles  more  and  we 
dropped  anchor  one  morning  in  the  roadstead  off  Per- 
nambuco. The  steward  went  ashore  for  alligator- 
pears  and  pineapples  and  those  of  us  who  didn’t  mind 
a drenching  for  the  green  parrot  which  every  gringo 
is  expected  to  take  home  from  Brazil.  A big  Royal 
Mailer,  southward  bound,  rolled  near  us  in  the  road- 
stead— the  inevitable  Britishers  buried  in  their  colo- 
nial edition  paper  novels  on  the  off-shore  deck — and 
our  Portuguese  boatman  must  needs  circle  her  in  the 
hope  of  getting  another  passenger.  It  was  rough, 
time  was  short,  and  the  French  drummer  who  ex- 
pected to  slip  in  a little  business  during  the  moment 
ashore  hissed  “Animal!”  and  called  down  on  the  old 
fellow’s  head  the  wrath  of  all  the  gods.  At  home  he 
would  probably  have  been  dumped  overboard,  but  this 
was  off  Recife,  only  eight  degrees  under  the  Line. 

“Senhor  es  indelicado”  sighed  the  old  boatman  in 
tropic  resignation,  and  he  steered  imperturbably  on. 

That  was  the  last  of  Brazil,  except  a whisper  of  the 
vast  mysterious  interior  a day  or  two  later,  when,  a 

290 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


hundred  and  fifty  miles  at  sea,  we  met  the  brown  flood 
of  the  Amazon,  still  intact,  pushing  against  the  blue, 
like  tide  creeping  up-stream.  Then,  as  we  steamed 
quietly  northward  toward  the  Barbadoes,  over  seas 
like  swinging  glass,  with  great  cumulus  clouds  stand- 
ing up  in  the  sky  like  stiff-whipped  cream,  flying-fish 
and  whales  and  porpoises  playing  in  the  indigo  water, 
and  sunsets  that  were  things  to  gasp  at,  I planted  a 
steamer-chair  by  the  rail,  where  the  faint  breeze  blew 
least  parsimoniously,  and  began  to  read  Senhor  Manoel 
Bomfim’s  “A  America  Latina.” 

I chronicle  this  placid  event  not  merely  because  this 
volume  seems,  in  retrospect,  an  integral  and  significant 
part  of  that  tropic  scene,  but  because  there  is,  per- 
haps, no  better  way  to  close  these  rather  personal 
and  accidental  impressions  than  by  mentioning,  at 
least,  the  work  of  a Brazilian  who  has  gone  beneath 
the  vivacious  externals  of  South  American  life  and  in- 
terpreted them.  For  here,  in  the  land  of  dithyrambs, 
was  a man  who  looked  plain  facts  in  the  face;  a 
thinker  with  a scientific  point  of  view  in  a continent 
where  such  a thing  is  very  rare. 

I do  not  put  forth  his  purely  negative  criticism  as  a 
final  judgment,  nor  as  my  own  opinion.  Various 
works,  one  under  the  same  title  by  Senhor  Sylvio 
Romero,  have,  I.  believe,  been  written  to  refute  it.  It 
is  offered  rather  as  a very  animated  “human  docu- 
ment”— a proof  that  Latin- Americans  are  not  only 
aware  of  deficiencies  but  have  the  intellectual  courage 
to  search  them  out  and  expose  them. 

291 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

“ European  public  opinion  is  aware  that  Latin 
America  exists,”  observes  Senhor  Bomfim  cheerfully 
in  his  opening  chapter.  “It  knows  more.  It  knows 
that  it  is  a very  extensive  continent,  extremely  rich, 
inhabited  by  people  of  Spanish  descent,  and  that  its 
populations  revolt  frequently.  Even  these  things, 
however,  are  seen  vaguely.  Riches,  vast  territory, 
revolutions  and  people,  all  is  jumbled  to  make  a sort 
of  fabulous  world — one  without  much  enchantment 
because  it  lacks  the  charm  of  antiquity.  Where  these 
riches  are  and  how  much  they  are  worth ; how  revolu- 
tions are  made,  who  made  them  and  where;  these  are 
questions  which  fail  to  define  themselves  out  of  the 
obscurity  of  that  general  idea — South  America.  ...” 

Those  familiar  with  works  which  treat  society  as  an 
organism  subject  to  much  the  same  phenomena  of 
heredity,  growth,  and  decay  as  animals  and  plants, 
will  readily  understand  Senhor  Bomfim’s  point  of  view. 
Briefly,  the  book  is  a study  of  national  parasitism — as 
developed  in  Spain  and  Portugal,  transferred  to  the 
South  American  colonies,  and  showing  in  inheritance 
to-day. 

The  conquerors,  inflamed  with  the  national  ideal  of 
the  Iberian  world,  heroic  adventure,  conquest,  and 
spoliation — parasitism,  in  a word,  living  without 
work,  however  this  prosaic  fact  was  glamoured  over — 
fell  on  the  southern  continent,  sacked,  exterminated. 
While  a solid,  healthy,  political  organism  was  spon- 
taneously growing  up  in  North  America,  this  system  of 
exploration  and  subjugation  went  relentlessly  on. 

292 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


"Progress  was  condemned  as  useless,  intelligence  per- 
secuted as  dangerous.  Everybody  explored  and  op- 
pressed. Production  depended  on  the  number  of  cap- 
tives and  the  cruelty  of  captors.  The  colony  was  over 
the  captive,  the  treasury  over  the  colony,  religious  ab- 
solutism and  archaism  over  all.  Wealth  poured  back 
to  the  peninsula.  The  metropolis  beamed,  fairly 
barked  its  joy.  It  had  realized  its  ideal — complete 
parasitism.” 

Parasitism  so  complete  as  this  became,  naturally, 
a congenital  tendency.  When  the  colonists  revolted, 
the  revolutionists,  having  had  no  experience  in  democ- 
racy, and  obsessed  by  the  Iberian  idea  of  "conserva- 
tism,” no  sooner  had  thrown  off  the  old  dictator  than, 
forthwith,  they  constituted  themselves  dictators  and 
continued  the  same  system  under  another  name. 

Not  mere  Latin  volatility,  then,  but,  paradoxically, 
this  ingrained  conservatism  causes  South  American 
revolutions.  "Forgetting  that  conserving  cannot  be 
made  anybody’s  especial  active  function,  but  that 
society  conserves  itself,  independent  of  any  outside 
force,  by  the  simple  fact  that  it  exists;  that  it  is  an 
organism  in  evolution,  a body  in  movement,  total, 
continuous,  integral,  like  a river  in  its  descent,  these 
conservadores  set  themselves  up  as  dams  to  stop  this 
normal  progress.”  The  revolutionists  "are  revolu- 
tionary up  to  the  moment  of  making  the  revolution; 
as  long  as  the  reform  is  limited  to  words.  To-night 
they  are  apostles,  inflammatory,  radical,  inviting  the 
people  to  combat:  to-morrow,  in  tamed  voices,  they 

293 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 

drone  out  circumspectly  the  counsels  of  balance  and 
of  prudence.  Ponderous  and  solemn  folk  begin  to 
appear.  Everything  is  done  to  hinder  the  execution  of 
those  reforms  in  the  name  of  which  the  revolution  was 
started,  to  defend  the  interests  of  the  classes  conserva- 
doras.” 

As  a result  the  “state”  becomes  an  abstraction — 
something  imposed  on  society  and  in  conflict  with  it 
. . . a “republic”  has  abstract  reasons  for  being  over 
and  above  the  nation’s  happiness.  A Ulrepublica' — 
through  some  intrinsic  virtue  in  those  four  syllables — 
sufficiently  justifies  itself.  They  act,  these  republicans, 
as  if  a * republica  ’ were  a reality  apart,  whose  role  it 
was  to  confer  on  people  an  especial  political  nobleness, 
having  which  they  should  be  content.” 

To  justify  these  fixed  ideas  and  this  conservatism, 
Senhor  Bomfim  continues,  “all  the  formulas  of  com- 
mon-sense are  called  in — not  the  good  sense  inspired 
by  practical  experience  and  used  every  day  in  ordinary 
life — but  a ‘good  sense’  handed  down  by  tradition, 
applicable  to  conditions  which  no  longer  exist.  There 
are  aphorisms  to  which  South-American  politicians 
consider  themselves  tied  as  by  some  solemn  agree- 
ment, without  inquiring  into  the  relation  which 
these  aphorisms  bear  to  actual  things.  . . . These 
men  of  the  ruling  classes  live  away  from  facts.  The 
actual  world  all  about  them  has  no  significance. 
They  apply  to  problems  of  current  national  life  the- 
ories taken  from  foreign  books;  or  the  keys  conse- 
crated by  that  antiquated  ‘common-sense.’  They 

294 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


mistake  a symptom  for  a cause,  ratiocinate  to  great 
heights,  lose  sight  of  the  conditions  in  which  facts  have 
taken  place.  . . . The  permanent  contradiction  be- 
tween the  words  and  the  acts  of  Latin-American  pub- 
lic men  is  due  to  this  parasitism,  which,  deadening  the 
faculty  of  observation,  causes  them  to  lose  their  sense 
of  reality  and  the  nearness  of  life.  . . .” 

The  same  tendency  can  be  seen  in  every-day  thought 
and  work  as  well  as  in  politics.  “In  general,”  as  Sen- 
hor  Bomfim  puts  it,  “these  societies  are  archives  of 
archaic  institutions  and  customs,  with  modern  eti- 
quette: a modern  glossary  designating  an  obsolete 
world.” 

There  is  little  real  scientific  spirit.  “Verbiage, techni- 
cal and  pompous  rhetoric,  myopic  erudition,  the  pomp 
of  wisdom,  an  affected  and  ridiculous  gibberish,  sum  up 
intellectual  activity.  The  verbose  man  is  the  wise  one. 
Groundless  generalizations,  the  literal  transcript  of 
philosophical  systems  and  abstractions,  take  the  place 
of  observation.  From  this  comes  that  mania  for  quo- 
tation, so  general  in  the  lucubrations  of  literary  South 
Americans.  Who  quotes  most  knows  most.  Inveter- 
ate rhetoricians,  whose  abundant  and  'precious’  words 
prove  their  genius,  turn  themselves  loose  in  many  vol- 
umes in  which  can  be  found  not  a single  original  idea 
nor  observation  of  their  own.  . . . 

“Brazil  declared  a republic,  and,  a constitution 
needed,  they  turn  to  that  of  the  United  States  of  North 
America,  of  Switzerland,  and  to  certain  pages  of  that 
of  Argentina.  Cut  a little  here,  borrow  there,  alter  a 

295 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


few  syllables,  temper  the  whole  with  a flavor  of  posi- 
tivism, and  we  have  a constitution  of  Brazil!  Through- 
out South  America  the  intellectual  wrorld  is  full  of  book- 
ishness; the  individual  is  such,  whether  or  no,  by  force 
of  tradition.  Physicians,  engineers,  lawyers,  critics, 
financiers,  warriors,  all  are  pedantic — spirits  purely 
bookish,  slaves  of  formulas,  tied  to  the  soporific  illu- 
sions of  the  absolute.  The  prestige  of  axioms,  of  incon- 
trovertible phrases,  is  absolutely  tyrannical.  It  is  a 
fetishism.” 

In  education  and  the  arts  South  Americans  exhibit 
the  same  detachment  from  life  and  “inability  to  follow 
social  phenomena  to  their  origins,  by  their  constant 
endeavor  to  reap  the  harvest  before  the  seed  is  sowed. 
They  build  in  the  Chinese  fashion;  refine  higher  edu- 
cation before  they  have  established  primary  schools; 
turn  out  ‘doctors’  to  float  on  the  flood  of  illiterates. 
Instead  of  educating  the  general  mass  of  the  popula- 
tion, the  essential  element  in  democracy;  instead  of 
the  professional  industrial  instruction  from  which  all 
the  rich  and  powerful  nations  of  to-day  have  derived 
their  economic  progress,  they  establish  universities, 
even  German  and  French  ones.  (And  why  not  bring 
over  Dr.  Faustus,  the  Declaration  of  Luther,  and  the 
Nibelungen  Legends!)  They  import  artists,  to  exist 
here,  dying  of  boredom — or  of  hunger — in  the  midst  of 
an  indifferent  public,  which  lacks  the  aesthetic  educa- 
tion to  nourish  and  stimulate  them.  . . . Arcadias  and 
solemnities  of  a defunct  preciosity,  these;  things  born 
dead.  Doctors,  academies,  institutes,  universities — to 

296 


RIO  AND  BRAZIL 


practise  inactivity  on  a society  of  irresponsibles;  to 
stir  the  somnolence  of  a popular  mass  which  is  to-day 
what  it  was  three  hundred  years  ago.  Necropolises  of 
ideas,  dead,  forgotten,  remote  from  modem  ideas  and 
aspirations.” 

A summary  so  brief  overaccents,  necessarily,  purely 
negative  criticism.  This,  however,  is  the  book’s  chief 
significance,  this  unsparing  analysis  in  a continent  so 
given  to  pyrotechnic  glossing  over.  As  for  Senhor 
Bomfim’s  hopeful  suggestions,  none  has  more  impres- 
siveness than  the  mere  existence  of  the  book  itself.  If 
anything  were  needed  to  show  that  Latin  Americans 
are  looking  modern  life  in  the  face  and  getting  a grip 
on  it,  it  is  shown,  it  seems  to  me,  by  such  criticism, 
written  not  by  an  Anglo-Saxon  student  of  politics,  but 
by  a Brazilian,  the  result,  as  the  author  says  in  his 
preface,  “of  a Brazilian’s  love  for  Brazil,  of  an  Ameri- 
can’s solicitude  for  America.” 

They  have  had  a difficult  childhood  and  youth, 
these  Other  Americans.  Sins  of  the  fathers,  climate, 
often,  the  dragging  weight  of  an  inferior  race,  even 
their  nobler  qualities — the  Spanish  worship  of  heroic 
valor,  and  that  lofty  disdain  for  the  commonplace 
which  so  easily  become  Quixotic  and  absurd  when 
forced  to  meet  the  material  efficiency  of  an  industrial 
and  commercial  people — have  worked  against  them. 

Yet  they,  too,  fought  for  their  independence.  They, 
too,  are  pioneers.  The  task  before  them,  however 
different  its  surfaces  may  be,  is  essentially  so  much 
like  ours,  that  the  least  a decently  fair  and  neigh- 

297 


THE  OTHER  AMERICANS 


borly  spirit  can  give  is  hearty  encouragement  and 
help.  The  Americans  to  whom — as  we  so  eloquently 
demand — America  must  belong  are  not  merely  North 
Americans.  Half  the  western  world,  this  vast  half- 
wakened  southern  continent,  is  theirs — theirs  to  tame 
and  to  train,  theirs  in  which  to  build  a future  home 
for  the  Latin  races,  to  work  out  slowly  and  labori- 
ously their  experiment  in  democracy. 


298 


STATISTICAL  APPENDIX 


APPENDIX  * 


South  America,  the  larger  of  the  two  grand  divisions  of  the 
Western  Continent,  extends  from  about  12°  North  latitude  to 
about  55°  South,  and  from  about  the  35th  Meridian  west  of 
Greenwich  to  about  the  80th.  Its  area  is  estimated  at  6,837,000 
square  miles,  or  391,000  square  miles  greater  than  that  of 
North  America. 

Along  the  west  coast,  from  Panama  to  Cape  Horn,  runs  the 
wall  of  the  Andes,  separated  from  the  Pacific  by  a comparative 
ribbon  of  land  and  varying  from  fifty  to  several  hundred  miles 
in  width.  There  are  mountains  in  eastern  Brazil,  but  these  are 
so  low,  comparatively  speaking,  that  the  continent  may  be  said 
to  slope  eastward  from  the  Andes  to  the  Atlantic  Ocean  and  the 
Caribbean.  In  the  Andes  is  the  highest  land  in  the  Western 
Hemisphere,  supposed  to  be  Mt.  Aconcagua,  about  23,000  feet. 
Many  other  Andean  peaks  are  over  20,000  feet.  The  highest 
navigable  lake  in  the  world  is  Titicaca,  which  is  situated,  at  an 
altitude  of  nearly  13,000  feet,  on  the  boundary  between  Bolivia 
and  Peru. 

The  principal  rivers  are  the  Amazon,  which  traverses  nearly 
the  entire  breadth  of  the  continent  and  is  the  largest  river  in 
the  world;  the  Orinoco  and  La  Plata,  with  its  two  great 
tributaries,  the  Parana  and  Uruguay.  West  of  the  Andes  and 
between  upper  Peru  and  upper  Chile  there  is  practically  no 

*The  following  statistics,  are  compiled  from  “The  Statesmen’s  Year 
Book  for  1908,”  C.  E.  Akers’s  “ History  of  South  America,”  C.  M.  Pep- 
per’s “ Panama  to  Patagonia,”  “ Brassey’s  Naval  Annual,”  and  from  in- 
formation supplied  by  the  Bureau  of  American  Republics. 

301 


APPENDIX 


rainfall,  the  moisture  condensing  and  falling  before  the  clouds 
can  pass  the  Andean  rampart. 

Population  estimated  at  about  36,500,000.  South  America 
was  discovered  by  the  Spanish  and  the  greater  part  claimed 
by  them  for  nearly  three  hundred  years.  A general  uprising 
in  the  early  part  of  the  nineteenth  century  completely  overthrew 
Spanish  rule.  At  present,  with  the  exception  of  British,  French, 
and  Dutch  Guiana,  South  America  consists  of  ten  independent 
republics,  Argentina,  Bolivia,  Brazil,  Colombia,  Chile,  Ecuador, 
Paraguay,  Peru,  Uruguay,  and  Venezuela. 

Argentine  Republic  extends  from  latitude  22°  South  to  56° 
South,  and  from  the  summit  of  the  Andes  to  the  Atlantic.  Area, 
1,212,000  square  miles,  or  about  five  and  a half  times  that  of 
France.  Population  in  1906  estimated  at  over  6,000,000, 
over  1,000,000  of  which  were  in  the  city  of  Buenos  Aires.  For 
nearly  three  hundred  years  after  the  discovery  of  the  river  Plate, 
in  1516,  the  part  of  South  America  now  known  as  the  Argentine 
Republic  belonged  to  the  viceroyalty  of  the  River  Plate.  In 
1810  the  Viceroy  Baltasar  de  Cisneros  was  deposed,  in  1816 
independence  was  declared,  and  in  1825  the  new  republic  was 
recognized.  From  then  until  1880  there  was  more  or  less  con- 
tinuous trouble  between  the  Portefios  (people  of  the  gate),  of 
Buenos  Aires,  who  wished  to  dominate  or  separate  from  the 
confederation,  and  the  provinces  who  were  jealous  of  Buenos 
Aires.  The  result  was  the  making  of  Buenos  Aires  a federal 
district  and  a strong  central  government  instead  of  a loose 
confederation. 

Argentina  is  the  fourth  wheat  producing  country  in  the 
world.  It  is  also  the  fourth  producer  of  linseed  and  it  grows 
large  quantities  of  maize,  flax,  wine,  etc.  In  1900  it  was  esti- 
mated that  there  were  25,000,000  horned  cattle  on  the  Argentine 
pampa.  There  were  over  30,000,000  acres  under  cultivation 
in  1906,  nearly  18,000,000  in  wheat.  The  total  value  of  exports 
in  1906  was  $322,843,841;  of  imports,  $205,154,420.  In  1905 

302 


APPENDIX 


the  exports,  in  tons,  were:  wheat,  2,868,281;  maize,  2,222,289; 
beef  and  mutton,  234,537;  wool,  191,000;  sheep  skins,  30,180. 
The  countries  to  which  exports  went,  in  the  order  of  amount 
received,  in  1905,  were:  Great  Britain,  France,  Germany, 
Belgium,  United  States,  Brazil,  Italy.  Those  sending  goods  to 
Argentina,  in  the  order  of  amount  sent,  were:  Great  Britain, 

Germany,  United  States,  Italy,  France,  Belgium,  and  Brazil. 

There  were  about  13,000  miles  of  railway  in  1906;  32,355 
miles  of  telegraph  lines.  Although  nominally  on  a gold  basis, 
most  of  the  money  in  circulation  is  paper.  The  value  of  the 
peso  is  about  forty-two  cents  American.  Of  the  many  com- 
mercial and  agricultural  banks,  the  more  important  are  the 
London  and  River  Plate,  the  London  and  Brazilian,  the  British 
Bank  of  South  America,  the  Bank  of  'Tarapaca  and  Argentina, 
the  Aleman  Trans-Atlantico,  the  Banco  del  Commercio,  the 
Banco  Popular  Argentino,  and  the  Banco  Espanol  del  Rio  de 
la  Plata. 

The  Rio  de  la  Plata,  with  its  tributaries  the  Parana  and  the 
Uruguay,  drains  an  area  of  3,103,000  square  kilometres — slightly 
more  than  is  drained  by  the  Mississippi.  The  mean  annual 
discharge  of  the  river  is  considerably  larger  than  that  of  the 
Mississippi. 

Military  service  is  compulsory  for  a period  of  twenty-five 
years,  all  men  twenty  years  old  being  subject  to  conscription  for 
from  six  months  to  two  years.  The  regular  army  consists  of 
about  16,000  men.  It  is  estimated  that  about  500,000  could  be 
put  into  the  field  in  case  of  war.  The  navy  consists  of  four 
first-class  armored  cruisers,  four  cruisers  of  the  second-class,  one 
central  battery  ironclad,  two  coast  defense  barbette  ironclads, 
two  torpedo  gunboats,  three  destroyers,  eight  torpedo  boats,  one 
submarine,  and  various  miscellaneous  craft. 

Bolivia,  named  in  honor  of  Bolivar,  the  liberator  of  northern 
South  America,  gained  independence  in  1825.  In  the  war  of 
1879  with  Chile  it  lost  its  seacoast,  and  it  is  now  completely 

303 


APPENDIX 


landlocked.  Trade  with  the  outside  world  is  carried  on  through 
Chilian  ports  and  the  Peruvian  port  of  Mollendo  by  way  of 
Lake  Titicaca.  Most  of  the  cities  are  situated  on  the  high  west- 
ern table-land,  which,  at  the  ancient  town  of  Potosi,  rises  to 
nearly  14,000  feet.  La  Paz,  the  capital,  with  a population  of 
about  79,000,  situated  at  an  altitude  of  3,630  metres,  over 

12.000  feet. 

Area  estimated  at  709,000  square  miles,  or  only  about  60,000 
less  than  that  of  Mexico;  it  is  the  third  country  in  size  in  South 
America.  Population  about  2,300,000,  of  which  about  one-fifth 
are  white  and  the  rest  Indians  and  mixed  races. 

Resources  are  principally  mineral.  About  15,000,000  ounces 
of  silver  are  produced  annually,  7,000  tons  of  tin  and  3,000  tons 
of  copper.  It  is  estimated  that  about  5,000  tons  of  rubber  are 
gathered  in  the  eastern  tropical  section  annually  and  shipped 
through  Brazil.  In  1905,  26,425,450  kilos  of  tin,  8,266,413  kilos 
of  silver,  and  6,708,295  kilos  of  copper  were  exported.  The 
total  exports  in  1905  were  valued  at  $29,533,047,  the  imports 
at  $20,298,772. 

The  great  obstacle  to  economic  progress  is  the  difficulty  of 
communication.  There  are  few  lines  of  railroad  1,430  miles 
of  cart  roads,  2,386  miles  of  telegraph  lines.  In  addition  to 
the  mineral  products,  enough  grain  is  raised  for  local  con- 
sumption. Coffee  and  cocoa  are  exported. 

All  Bolivians  are  subject  to  service  in  the  army,  the  peace 
footing  of  which  is  about  2,500  men.  It  is  estimated  that  243,000 
men  could  be  put  into  the  field  in  time  of  war. 

Brazil,  the  largest  country  of  South  America,  extends  from 
4°  North  latitude  to  nearly  34°  South,  with  a coast-line  about 

4.000  miles  in  length.  Its  greatest  wddth,  from  east  to  west, 
is  between  a point  in  the  State  of  Pernambuco  and  one  on  the 
frontier  of  Peru,  in  longitude  30°  and  58'  West,  the  distance 
between  these  two  points  being  4,350  kilometres  about  3,500 
miles.  The  area  is  estimated  at  3,218,991  square  miles,  or  about 

304 


APPENDIX 


as  large  as  the  United  States,  including  Alaska.  The  popu- 
lation in  1907,  estimated  at  20,000,000,  of  which  one-third  to 
one-half  was  wThite.  The  capital  is  Rio  Janeiro — about 
820,000;  the  principal  cities  Sao  Paulo,  332,000;  Bahia, 
230,000;  Pernambuco,  120,000;  Belem,  100,000;  Porto  Ale- 
gre, 80,000;  Manaos,  40,000.  Several  other  cities  have  over 
30,000. 

Brazil  was  discovered  by  the  Spaniard  Pinzon,  in  1500,  and 
a little  later  in  the  same  year  the  Portuguese  Cabral  landed  in 
urhat  is  now  the  State  of  Bahia,  and  took  possession  of  the  country 
in  the  name  of  Portugal,  to  which  country  it  was  subject  until 
1822.  On  Napoleon’s  overthrow  of  the  House  of  Braganza, 
John  VI  fled  with  his  court  to  Brazil,  in  1808.  On  the  fall 
of  the  Bourbon  dynasty  in  Spain,  King  John  was  recalled  to 
Portugal  by  the  Cortes.  He  left  behind  him,  as  Regent,  his 
son  Dom  Pedro  I who  declared  independence  in  1822.  In 
1831  Dom  Pedro  I abdicated  in  favor  of  his  son  Dom  Pedro 
II,  who  reigned  until  1889,  when  there  was  a peaceful  revolu- 
tion and  a republic  succeeded  the  empire.  Slavery  had  been 
abolished,  1888.  A Constitution  was  adopted,  1891. 

Agriculture  is  Brazil’s  most  important  industry,  although 
there  are  diamond  and  gold  mines,  large  quantities  of  iron, 
petroleum,  and  other  minerals  yet  to  be  worked.  Over  sixty 
per  cent,  of  the  world’s  coffee  is  raised  in  Brazil.  Besides 
coffee,  large  quantities  of  sugar,  India  rubber,  tobacco,  cotton, 
yerba  mate,  cacao,  and  nuts  are  exported. 

Exports,  1905,  $223,265,720,  consisting  in  part  of  10,820,661 
bags  of  coffee;  40,855,653  kilos  yerba  mate’ ; rubber,  35,392,000 
kilos;  hides  and  skins,  29,055,406  kilos;  cotton,  24,081,753 
kilos;  cacao,  21,090,088  kilos;  tobacco,  20,390,558  kilos. 
The  countries  to  which  exports  were  sent,  in  the  order  of  amount 
taken,  were:  United  States,  Great  Britain,  Germany,  France, 
Argentina,  Belgium,  Uruguay,  and  Italy. 

Imports,  1905,  $163,697,720.  The  countries  sending  imports, 
in  the  order  of  amount  sent,  were:  Great  Britain,  Germany, 

305 


APPENDIX 


Argentina,  United  States,  France,  Portugal,  British  Possessions, 
Uruguay,  Belgium,  and  Italy. 

In  1905,  17,072  vessels  of  12,927,295  tons  entered  ports  of 
Brazil.  The  Merchant  Navy  in  1905  consisted  of  209  steamers 
of  93,345  tons  net  and  340  sailing  vessels,  of  74,475  tons  net. 
All  coasting  and  river  vessels  must  be  Brazilian. 

Total  length  railways,  1905,  10,408  miles,  besides  4,000  miles 
in  process  of  construction.  About  15,500  miles  of  telegraph 
lines. 

There  is  little  metallic  money  in  circulation.  The  amount  of 
paper  money  in  circulation,  January  1,  1907,  was  664,732,480 
milreis.  The  gold  milreis  is  worth  2s.  2^d.  The  paper  milreis 
is  subject  to  great  fluctuation. 

The  army  consists  of  about  15,000  officers  and  men,  the 
gendarmerie  of  about  20,000.  Military  sendee  is  not  made 
compulsory.  The  navy  consists  of  four  sheathed  cruisers,  eight 
turret-gunboats,  two  of  which  are  used  for  coast  defence,  four 
torpedo  cruisers,  one  torpedo  gunboat,  one  small  cruiser  wdth 
deck  armor,  one  small  sheathed  gun  vessel,  and  various  miscel- 
laneous craft. 

Chile  extends  from  16°  30'  South  latitude  to  Cape  Horn, 
about  2,300  miles,  and  from  the  crest  of  the  Andes  to  the  Pacific, 
an  average  breadth  of  130  miles.  The  area  is  307,620  square 
miles,  or  about  50,000  square  miles  larger  than  Texas.  The 
country  is  extremely  mountainous,  and  has  no  large  rivers. 

Chile  was  a Spanish  viceroyalty  until  1810,  when  the  war 
for  independence  began.  In  1817  General  San  Martin,  the 
liberator  of  the  southern  part  of  South  America,  crossed  the 
Andes  from  Argentina,  and  at  Chacabuco  defeated  the  Royalist 
forces  decisively.  In  1818  the  insurgents  again  defeated  the 
Spanish  at  Maipu,  finally  securing  Chile’s  independence.  The 
Constitution  voted  in  1833,  although  modified  from  time  to 
time,  in  its  fundamental  points  remains  unaltered  to  the  pres- 
ent day.  The  war  with  Bolivia  and  Peru,  1879-1883,  gave 

306 


APPENDIX 

Chile  the  rich  nitrate  provinces  and  left  it  master  of  the  West 
Coast. 

Population,  1907,  about  5,000,000.  Capital,  Santiago,  about 
400,000;  other  cities,  Valparaiso,  143,000;  Concepcion,  50,000; 
Iquique,  43,000;  Talca,  43,331;  Chilian,  36,681;  Antofagasta, 
16,253. 

The  nitrate  industry  at  present  absorbs  most  of  the  country’s 
commercial  energy  and  produces  most  of  its  revenue.  In  the 
twenty-five  years  up  to  1906  the  nitrate  beds  had  yielded  to  the 
Chilian  Government,  in  export  tax,  $273,000,000  gold;  for  the 
next  twenty-five  years  it  is  estimated  that  the  export  tax  will 
nearly  double  this  sum.  In  1905  it  is  estimated  that  Chile  had 
a nitrate  supply  still  undug  of  1,250,000,000  quintals.  Chile 
also  produces  cereals,  wine,  live  stock,  silver,  copper,  and  other 
minerals,  and  timber. 

Exports,  1905,  265,209,192  pesos  (a  peso  is  worth  about  36 
cents  American).  The  countries  with  whom  this  trade  was  carried 
on,  in  the  order  of  trade  importance,  were:  Great  Britain, 

Germany,  United  States,  France,  Peru,  Belgium,  Italy,  Argentina. 

Imports,  1905,  108,596,418  pesos.  The  countries  from 
which  imports  came,  in  order  of  trade  importance,  were:  Great 

Britain,  Germany,  United  States,  France,  Argentina,  Italy, 
Peru,  Belgium,  Uruguay. 

The  shipping  entered  at  ports  of  Chile,  in  1904,  was  11,756 
vessels,  of  17,723,138  tons.  Of  the  tonnage  entered,  8,422,815 
tons  was  British,  5,220,223  Chilian,  3,462,077  German.  A 
Chilian  South  American  Steamboat  Company,  receiving  an 
annual  subsidy,  with  twelve  steamers  for  general  navigation 
and  seven  for  river  navigation,  plies  between  the  South  American 
Pacific  ports. 

Lines  of  railroad,  in  1906,  about  3,000  miles;  telegraph,  11,000; 
telephone,  16,000. 

Military  service  is  obligatory;  every  Chilian  capable  of  bearing 
arms,  from  18  to  45  years  of  age,  is  liable  to  serve.  In  the  first 
year,  20-21,  with  the  colors;  following  nine  years  in  first  reserve, 

307 


APPENDIX 


afterward  in  second  reserve.  Permanent  nucleus  in  1904  con- 
tained about  6,000  men. 

Navy  consists  of  one  battleship,  two  armored  cruisers,  four 
protected  cruisers,  one  training  ship,  three  torpedo  gunboats, 
six  destroyers,  and  eight  modern  iorpedo  boats. 

Colombia,  which  once  included  what  is  now  Venezuela  and 
Ecuador,  gained  independence  from  Spain  in  1819;  split  up 
into  Venezuela,  Ecuador,  and  Republic  of  New  Granada,  1832; 
in  1858  New  Granada  changed  into  Confederation  Granadina; 
in  1861  name  changed  to  United  States  of  New  Granada,  which 
was  changed  to  the  name  United  States  of  Colombia  in  1863. 
Revolution,  1885,  brought  about  new  Constitution,  by  which 
the  sovereign  states  became  simple  departments,  with  Governors 
appointed  by  President  of  the  Republic.  Revolutions  have 
been  almost  continuous,  and  this,  with  lack  of  communication, 
has  kept  Colombia  backward. 

Area  variously  estimated  at  from  445,000  to  505,000  square 
miles  Population,  1905,  4,279,674,  including  150,000  uncivil- 
ized Indians. 

Capital,  Bogota,  situated  in  the  interior,  9,000  feet  above  sea 
level.  About  120,000  people.  Chief  commercial  towns  are 
Barranquilla,  on  the  Magdalena  River,  and  its  seaport,  Savanilla, 
Santa  Marta,  and  Cartagena,  on  the  Caribbean;  Buenaventura, 
on  the  Pacific,  and  Medillin,  an  interior  mining  town.  The 
Magdalena  is  navigable  for  900  miles,  steamers  now  ascending 
to  La  Dorada,  600  miles  from  the  coast. 

Colombia  is  rich  in  mineral  wealth,  which  is  only  slightly  devel- 
oped ; $300,000,000  wTorth  of  gold  and  silver  was  mined  during 
the  Spanish  occupation.  The  annual  output  at  present,  of  gold 
and  silver,  is  about  $4,116,000.  Coffee,  cattle,  and  rubber  are 
also  important.  The  exports,  in  1905,  from  the  port  of  Barrin- 
quilla,  were  330,028  bags  of  coffee,  209,595  hides,  20,745  bales 
tobacco,  10,339  bags  ivory  nuts,  1,510  bales  rubber,  11,000  bags 
minerals,  5,755  bales  cottonseed,  583  bales  cotton.  In  the  same 

308 


APPENDIX 


year  986,224  kilos  coffee  were  shipped  from  Santa  Marta,  besides 
large  quantities  of  bananas,  cacao,  cocoanuts,  skins.  The  im- 
ports into  the  United  States  from  Colombia,  in  1906,  were 
$7,084,487;  the  exports  to  Colombia  $3,491,420. 

Steamers  entering  port  of  Barrinquilla,  1905,  numbered  264, 
of  941,842  tons.  Ports  of  Colombia  are  in  regular  communica- 
tion with  Europe  and  America  by  means  of  ten  lines  of  mail 
steamers,  five  of  which  are  British,  the  others  German,  French, 
Spanish,  Dutch,  and  Italian.  Total  length  of  railways,  1904, 
411  miles;  telegraph,  6,470  miles. 

Every  able-bodied  Colombian  is  liable  to  military  service; 
regular  army  consists  of  about  5,000  men,  many  of  whom  are 
engaged  in  making  or  repairing  highways.  The  navy  consists 
of  one  small  cruiser  bought  from  Morocco  in  1902,  two  gun- 
boats, and  two  riverboats. 

Ecuador,  separated  from  Colombia  in  1830,  and  has  been 
disturbed  more  or  less  continually  ever  since  by  revolution. 

Area  about  120,000  square  miles,  or  about  the  size  of  Norway. 
Population,  the  bulk  of  which  is  Indian  and  mixed  blood,  is 
about  1,400,000.  The  Capital,  Quito,  80,000;  principal  sea- 
port and  commercial  centre,  Guayaquil,  about  70,000;  about 
three  hundred  foreign  vessels,  with  a tonnage  varying  from 
360,000  to  370,000,  enter  and  clear  here  every  year. 

The  imports  vary  from  $7,000,000  to  $7,500,000,  and  the 
exports  from  $9,000,000  to  $9,300,000.  The  exports  to  United 
States  in  1906  were  $2,632,206;  imports  from  United  States  to 
Ecuador,  $2,009,861. 

One-third  of  the  world’s  supply  of  chocolate  comes  originally 
from  Ecuador.  From  45,000,000  to  55,000,000  pounds  are 
shipped  through  Guayaquil  annually.  Coffee,  rubber,  ivory 
nuts,  tobacco,  “ Panama”  hats,  and  Peruvian  bark  are  also 
exported.  Large  mineral  resources,  only  slightly  developed. 

The  roads  are  mostly  bridle  paths,  and  much  of  the  inland 
communication  is  by  river.  There  is  railroad  communication 

309 


APPENDIX 


from  Guayaquil  almost  to  Quito,  and  there  are  other  short  lines. 
There  are  2,564  miles  of  telegraph  and  cable  communication 
to  the  rest  of  the  world. 

The  army  consists  of  about  5,000  officers  and  men;  the  navy 
of  two  old  French  despatch  vessels,  one  torpedo  boat,  and  two 
transports. 

Peru,  formerly  the  most  important  of  the  Spanish  vice- 
royalties, declared  independence  1821,  and  gained  freedom, 
1824.  Since  then  the  country  has  suffered  from  various  revo- 
lutions and  its  power  was  temporarily  crushed  in  the  war  with 
Chile,  1879-1884,  by  which  it  lost  the  valuable  nitrate  provinces. 

Area  about  696,000  square  miles,  or  about  three  and  one-half 
times  that  of  France.  Population  about  3,500,000,  of  whom 
more  than  half  are  Indian.  The  capital,  Lima,  about  135,000. 
Principal  cities  Callao,  seaport  of  Lima,  Arequipa,  Cuzco,  and 
Iquitos ; the  latter  is  near  the  eastern  border  and  extensive  trade 
passes  through  it  on  its  way  to  the  Amazon. 

Chief  agricultural  products  are  coffee,  cotton,  sugar,  chocolate, 
cocoa,  and  rubber.  There  are  vast  deposits  of  silver  and  copper; 
and  gold,  coal,  and  petroleum  are  also  important.  In  1904  there 
were  exported  130,000  tons  of  sugar,  7,413  tons  of  cotton,  3,550 
tons  of  wool,  1,031  tons  of  coffee.  The  mineral  output  in  1905 
included  $3,220,000  worth  of  silver,  $3,110,000  copper,  $625,- 
000  petroleum,  $486,000  gold.  Rubber  valued  at  $2,142,000  was 
exported  mostly  through  Iquitos. 

The  value  of  exports  in  1905  was  estimated  at  57,516,210 
soles  (a  sol  is  worth  about  50  cents  American).  The  imports 
were  valued  at  43,291,510  soles.  The  order  of  distribution  of 
this  trade  was : Imports,  Great  Britain,  United  States,  Germany, 
France,  Chile,  Bergium,  Italy.  Exports,  Great  Britain,  Chile, 
United  States,  Germany,  France,  Spain,  Belgium,  Italy. 

The  exports  to  the  United  States  from  Peru  in  1906  were 
valued  at  $4,833,307.  The  imports  from  the  United  States, 
$2,454,706. 


310 


APPENDIX 


Vessels  entering  port  of  Callao,  1905,  531  of  903,189  tons, 
The  total  tonnage  of  all  the  Peruvian  ports,  including  naviga- 
tion on  Lake  Titicaca  in  1904,  was:  Entered,  1,947,669  tons; 
cleared,  1,728,400  tons.  Mail  steamers  of  Pacific  Steam  Naviga- 
tion Company  and  Chilian  Company  ply  between  Peru  and  other 
West  Coast  ports.  Various  cargo  lines  ply  between  Peru  and 
Europe,  and  there  is  direct  communication  between  Peru  and 
Japan  and  China. 

By  decree  of  1898,  giving  effect  to  law  of  December  29,  1897, 
the  gold  standard  was  established.  The  libra  is  of  the  same 
standard  and  weight  as  the  English  pound  sterling,  which  is  also 
legal  tender.  Ten  soles  equal  one  pound  sterling. 

There  is  a general  need  of  better  communication.  Total 
length  of  railroad  in  1905  was  1,146  miles;  telegraph,  3,000 
miles.  There  is  cable  connection  with  Chile  and  with  the  North. 

Army  contains  4,000  officers  and  men,  drilled  by  French 
officers.  Navy  consists  of  the  cruiser  Almirante  Grau,  3,200 
tons,  24  knot  speed,  launched  1906  at  Barrow;  Lima,  a small 
cruiser;  the  Iquitos  and  Constitucion,  transports;  the  Santa  Rosa 
and  Chalaco,  despatch  boats. 

Paraguay. — Originally  part  of  the  Viceroyalty  of  Peru,  later 
placed  under  jurisdiction  of  Buenos  Aires,  declared  indepen- 
dence of  Spain  in  1811.  After  a short  government  by  two 
consuls,  the  supreme  power  was  seized  by  various  dictators,  and 
so  held  until  the  great  war  between  Lopez  and  the  combined 
forces  of  Brazil,  Argentina,  and  Uruguay,  1865-1870.  Lopez 
was  defeated  and  killed  at  Aquidaban,  March  1,  1870.  The 
country  was  completely  exhausted,  and  it  is  only  within  the  past 
few  years  that  it  has  begun  to  recover. 

Area,  about  98,000  square  miles.  Population  about  650,000, 
including  50,000  Indians.  The  capital,  Asuncion,  has  about 
62,000  people.  Other  towns  are  Villa  Rica,  25,000;  Concepcion, 
15,000;  Carapegua,  13,000.  The  main  industries  are  cattle- 
raising, the  growing  of  yerba  maU,  oranges,  tobacco,  and  the 

311 


APPENDIX 


cutting  of  timber,  especially  the  quebracho  Colorado,  used  for 
railroad  ties,  and,  in  the  form  of  extract,  for  tanning.  Exports, 
in  1905,  $5,232,770;  imports,  $4,678,514.  Of  the  exports,  61 
per  cent,  go  to  Argentina,  35  per  cent,  to  Europe,  and  the  re-, 
mainder  to  various  South  American  countries. 

Gold  and  silver  coin  were,  in  1903,  legally  fixed  as  identical 
with  those  of  Argentina.  Paper  money  is  the  chief  circulating 
medium. 

There  are  about  156  miles  of  railroad;  1,130  miles  of  telegraph 
lines.  In  1905,  460  steamers,  of  109,933  tons,  entered  the  port 
of  Asuncion.  A French  line  has  established  direct  communica- 
tion between  France  and  Asuncion,  and  the  Lloyd-Brazilian 
Steamboat  Company  is  to  extend  its  service  about  3,000  miles 
up  the  La  Plata  River  to  Matto  Grosso. 

The  army,  maintained  chiefly  to  preserve  internal  order, 
numbers  about  1,000;  there  are  five  government  steamers  serv- 
ing for  transport  and  coast  guard. 

Uruguay. — Originally  part  of  a viceroyalty  of  Spain,  sub- 
sequently a province  of  Brazil,  became  independent  in  1828. 
Frequent  revolutions  have  greatly  retarded  its  progress. 

Area,  about  72,210  square  miles;  population,  in  1904,  about 
1,039,000.  Montevideo,  the  capital,  has  about  300,000  people; 
a university  with  faculties  of  law,  medicine  and  mathematics, 
a state  school  of  arts  and  trades,  military  college,  normal  schools, 
and  various  establishments  for  secondary  education;  there  is  a 
national  library  and  museum,  a charity  hospital  and  various 
asylums;  there  are  126  periodicals  published  in  the  republic. 
The  main  industries  are  cattle  and  sheep-raising  and  the  growing 
of  grain.  Wine,  tobacco  and,  in  the  north,  minerals,  are  also 
important.  In  1902  it  was  estimated  that  there  were  in  the 
country  18,000,000  sheep,  7,000,000  cattle,  659,000  horses, 
21,000  mules,  9,000  goats,  52,000  pigs. 

The  exports,  in  1905,  were  valued  at  about  $31,000,000 
The  imports  at  almost  the  same  figure.  Of  the  exports,  nearly 

312 


APPENDIX 


$28,000,000  worth  were  in  the  form  of  preserved  beef  and  hides 
and  other  animal  products.  In  1905,  Uruguay  exported  to  the 
United  States  $2,711,897  worth  of  goods  and  received  from  the 
United  States  $2,905,573  worth.  The  imports  into  the  United 
States  are  chiefly  hides  and  skins. 

Vessels  entering  the  port  of  Montevideo,  in  1905,  4,837,  of 
6,850,617  tons  net.  In  that  year,  twenty-eight  steamers,  of  total  net 
tonnage  of  13,220,  and  seventy-two  sailing  vessels,  of  total  net  ton- 
nage of  31,062,  flew  the  flag  of  Uruguay.  Montevideo  is  visited 
by  steamers  of  twenty  different  companies,  of  which  twelve  are 
British,  three  French,  two  German,  two  Italian,  and  one  Spanish. 

Inland  communication  leaves  much  to  be  desired;  there  are 
1,210  miles  of  railroad  and  4,916  miles  of  telegraph  line;  11,414 
miles  of  telephone  wires. 

There  is  no  Uruguayan  gold  coin  in  circulation,  but  the 
monetary  standard  is  gold,  the  theoretical  gold  coin  being  the 
peso  national,  weighing  1.697  grammes  .917  fine. 

The  permanent  army  numbered  in  1905  about  5,800  officers 
and  men.  There  is  also  an  armed  police  force  of  3,830  men. 
The  navy  consists  of  two  small  gun-boats  and  two  transports. 

Venezuela. — Discovered  by  Columbus  on  his  third  voyage, 
1498.  It  was  in  Caracas,  the  capital,  that  the  revolutionary 
movement,  which  freed  the  whole  northern  part  of  South  America 
from  Spain,  began,  in  1810.  General  Miranda  had  led  an  un- 
successful revolt  in  1806.  On  July  5,  1811,  independence  was 
proclaimed,  and  for  ten  years  afterward  there  was  almost  con- 
tinuous warfare.  The  important  battles  of  Carabobo,  in  1821, 
of  Pichincha,  in  1822,  and  Junin  and  Ayaeucho,  in  1824,  finally 
destroyed  the  Spanish  power.  The  Republic  of  Venezuela  was 
formed  in  1830  by  secession  from  the  other  members  of  the 
Republic  of  Colombia.  Since  1830,  no  fewer  than  fifty-one 
revolutionary  movements  have  swept  the  country,  eleven  of 
which  overturned  the  government  of  the  day. 

Area,  about  364,000  square  miles,  with  a population,  in  1905, 

313 


APPENDIX 


of  2,602,492.  Caracas,  the  capital,  has  about  75,000  people,  and 
among  the  other  cities  are,  Valencia,  38,654;  Maracaibo,  34,284; 
Barquisimeto,  31,476;  Barcelona,  12,785;  Ciudad  Bolivar, 
11,686.  The  area  of  Venezuela  equals  more  than  the  combined 
area  of  Texas,  Kentucky,  Tennessee,  Alabama,  Mississippi, 
Louisiana,  Oklahoma  and  Arkansas. 

Venezuela  is  divided  into  three  zones — the  agricultural,  near 
the  Caribbean,  which  produces  sugar-cane,  coffee,  cocoa,  cereals, 
etc.;  the  llanos,  or  cattle  country,  in  the  interior  along  the 
Orinoco,  and  the  forest  country,  which  produces  rubber,  timber, 
tonga  beans,  etc.  Valuable  deposits  of  minerals,  asphalt,  petro- 
leum, in  common  with  other  resources,  are  as  yet  only  slightly 
developed. 

Value  of  exports,  1905,  about  $14,500,000;  value  of  imports, 
about  $10,000,000;  the  exports,  in  the  order  of  their  value,  were: 
Coffee,  chocolate,  rubber,  cattle,  hides  and  skins,  gold,  asphalt, 
pearls.  The  distribution  of  export  trade,  in  the  order  of  im- 
portance, was:  United  States,  France,  Holland  and  Colonies, 
Great  Britain  and  Colonies,  Cuba,  Germany  and  Spain. 

The  exports  to  the  United  States  from  Venezuela,  in  1906, 
were  valued  at  $8,034,701;  imported  from  United  States, 
$3,258,133. 

Vessels  entering  ports  of  Venezuela  in  1905,  were:  At  Puerto 
Cabello,  330;  La  Guayra,  282;  Ciudad  Bolivar,  54.  The 
Venezuelan  ports  are  visited  regularly  bv  mail  steamers  of 
American,  British,  Dutch,  French,  German,  Italian  and  Spanish 
steamship  companies.  In  1905,  twelve  steamers  and  eighteen 
sailing  vessels  flew  the  Venezuelan  flag. 

There  are  twelve  lines  of  railway,  of  a total  length  of  about 
540  miles;  there  are  about  11,160  miles  of  navigable  water  on 
the  Orinoco  and  its  tributaries;  there  are  4,160  miles  of  telegraph 
line.  Communication  in  the  interior  is  primitive  and  mostly 
carried  on  by  pack  mules. 

The  active  army  consists  of  about  9,000  men;  the  navy  con- 
sists of  two  small  gun-boats  and  two  small  transports. 

314 


INDEX 


INDEX 


Aconcagua,  Mount,  mentioned.  184, 
193. 

Akers,  Mr.,  his  history  of  South  Amer- 
ica, mentioned,  186. 

America,  North,  people  compared  with 
the  people  of  South  America,  4. 

America,  South,  two  ways  of  seeing  the 
country  of,  34-  appendix,  301 
and  302. 

Americans,  The  Other,  our  usual  atti- 
tude toward  and  idea  of,  2 and  3. 

Andes,  the  climate  of  the  western  slope 
of,  50-52;  the  heights  of.  men- 
tioned, 184. 

Antofagasta,  harbor  of,  mentioned, 
137. 

Aranha,  Senhor  Graea,  author  of 
"Chanaan,”  276;  reading  of  his 
novel  by,  277-280. 

Arequipa,  town  of,  107:  Harvard  ob- 
servatory at,  108  and  109;  influ- 
ence of  the  church  at,  110  and  111. 

Argentine  Republic,  use  of  name  Re- 
public, 1;  the  American  idea  of, 
2;  exports  of,  211  and  212;  pop- 
ulation and  foreign  residents  of, 
241-243;  appendix,  302  and  303. 

Arica,  battle  of,  mentioned,  71. 

Atahualpa,  mentioned,  51. 

Avenida  Alvear,  the,  at  afternoon  in, 
218-221. 

Avenida  Sarmiento,  the,  a street  in 
Buenos  Aires,  mentioned,  218. 

Bahia,  color  of  the  ; sulation  of,  4; 
mentioned,  290. 


Ballon,  E.  Zegarra,  mentioned,  107; 
poem  to,  108. 

Balmaceda,  President,  his  death,  155. 

Baltimore,  the  U.  S.  S.,  fight  with 
Chilian  soldiers,  139. 

Barrio  de  La  Vina,  mentioned,  85. 

Bartolomeo,  San,  mentioned,  61. 

Blanco  Encalada,  the  Chilian  battle- 
ship, 140. 

Boca,  La,  the  dock  at,  32. 

Bogota,  “ the  Boston  of  South  Amer- 
ica,” 35;  poetry  written  at,  36. 

Bolivar,  Gen.,  the  South  American 
Liberator,  mentioned,  5;  his  de- 
feat of  the  Spaniards,  68. 

Bolivar,  the  Plaza  de,  mentioned,  16. 

Bolivia,  mentioned,  4;  country  of, 
climate,  101-105;  difficulty  of 
travelling  to,  104  and  105;  needs 
of  the  country,  116  and  117;  ap- 
pendix, 303  and  304. 

Bolognesi,  Colonel  Francisco,  mon- 
ument to  and  account  of  his 
death,  71  and  72;  statue  of, 
mentioned,  76. 

“Bolsa,  La,”  a newspaper  of  Arequipa, 
107. 

Bomfim,  Senhor,  quotations  from  his 
book,  292  and  293;  quoted,  294 
and  295. 

Brazil,  impressions  on  entering  the 
country,  258  and  259;  emancipa- 
tion of  the  slaves  of,  273;  foreign 
population  of,  286  and  287;  ap- 
pendix, 304-306. 

Bricabraquena,  mentioned,  85. 


317 


INDEX 


Buenos  Aires,  town  of,  mentioned,  1; 
compared  with  Paris,  207  and 
208;  commerce  of,  212  and  213; 
compared  with  other  South  Amer- 
ican cities,  214  and  215;  a French- 
man’s impression  of,  216;  litera- 
ture of,  224  and  225;  contrast  of 
its  welcome  to  Secretary  Root 
with  that  of  Montevideo's,  232; 
newspapers  of,  245-247;  life  in, 
251-253. 

Callao,  town  of,  mentioned,  52-56; 
situation,  57;  harbor  of,  men- 
tioned, 52. 

Canto,  Don  Guillermo  del,  mentioned, 
164. 

Caracas,  town  of,  9;  called  the  Paris 
of  South  America,  15;  lottery  at, 
19-21;  inhabitants  and  climate 
of,  13-28. 

Carreflo,  Madame,  mentioned,  26. 

Carocoles,  town  of,  mentioned,  189. 

Carvallo,  mentioned,  25. 

Castro,  President,  mentioned,  25. 

Chacabuco,  the  Chilian  battleship,  140. 

“Chacabuco,”  play  of,  225-227. 

“Chanaan,”  quotation  from,  283-285; 
mentioned,  276. 

Chile,  attitude  toward  the  Ameri- 
cans, 3;  war  with  Peru,  73-76; 
country  of,  145  and  146;  Chilian 
justice,  146  and  147;  the  horse- 
men of,  165;  appendix,  306-308. 

“Chilefio,  El,”  a Chilian  newspaper, 
mentioned,  157. 

Choisica,  author’s  journey  through,  61. 

Christie,  officer  in  the  Chilian  navy, 
140. 

Colombia,  appendix,  308  ana  309. 

Colon,  town  of,  38. 

“Combate,  El,"  newspaper,  letter  to, 
23  and  24. 

Compana,  La,  mentioned,  22. 

Corulell,  Almirante,  Chilian  battleship, 
mentioned,  140. 


Corcovado,  rock  of.  mentioned,  263. 

Cordillera,  buried  valley  of,  69. 

Corpus  Christi,  church  fiesta  of,  87-89. 

Cox,  officer  in  Chilian  navy,  men- 
tioned, 140. 

Culebra  Cut,  the,  mentioned,  46. 

Culvas,  las,  mentioned,  206. 

Del  Solar,  Alberto,  author  of 
“Chacabuco,”  225. 

“Dia,  El,'  a newspaper  of  Buenos 
Aires,  Secretary  Root’s  speech  re- 
ported in,  231. 

“ Diario  El,”  newspaper  of  Santiago, 
its  attitude  during  Secretary 
Root’s  visit,  247  and  248. 

“Diario  Ilustrado,  El,"  newspaper  of 
Santiago,  157. 

“Di&rio  Popular,  El,”  newspaper  of 
Santiago,  157. 

Diarios,  dos,  Club,  ball  at,  274  and  275. 

Ecuador,  appendix,  309  and  310. 

Eden  Club,  the,  99  and  100. 

Edwards,  officer  in  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned.  140. 

Esmeralda,  The,  Chilian  battleship, 
141. 

" Ferrocarril,  El,”  newspaper  of 
Santiago,  mentioned,  157. 

Florida  Street,  a street  In  Buenos 
Aires,  mentioned,  222. 

Frio,  Cap,  German  steamer,  men- 
tioned, 212. 

Galera,  Pass  of,  mentioned,  52. 

"Germany,  the  Little,"  286  and  287. 

Gorgas,  Colonel,  mentioned,  37. 

Grau,  statue  of,  72. 

Gran  canciller  americano,  El,  a South 
American  biography  of  Secretary 
Root,  232. 

“Grito  del  Pueblo,  El,”  mentioned,  50. 

Guayaquil,  walls  of,  mentioned,  50; 
chocolate  supply  of,  50. 


318 


INDEX 


Guayra,  La,  port  of,  mentioned,  27- 
37. 

Hipodromo  de  Santa  Beatriz,  Jockey 
Club  Races  and  Bull  Fight  at,  89 
and  90. 

Huerfanos,  corner  of,  mentioned,  153. 

“Imparcial,  El,"  newspaper,  men- 
tioned, 157. 

Incas,  the  civilization  of,  5;  fields  of, 
65  and  66. 

India,  La,  mentioned,  27. 

Ingles  6 norte-americano,  1. 

"Instituto  Ingles,”  the,  173  and  174. 

Iquitos,  town  of,  mentioned,  58. 

Jockey  Club,  the,  party  at,  165-168. 

“Jornal  do  Brazil,”  the,  267. 

Joven  Victoria,  La,  54. 

Juncal,  the,  mentioned,  187. 

Junin  pampa,  the,  mentioned,  68. 

“Juventud  Conservadora,”  newspa- 
per of  Santiago,  158. 

La  Paz,  town  of,  and  inhabitants,  114- 
116;  the  story  of  the  British  Pre- 
mier at,  115  and  116. 

"Lei,  La,”  newspaper  of  Santiago, 
mentioned,  157. 

Leighton,  officer  in  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned,  140. 

Lima,  railroad  at,  58;  founding  of,  by 
Pizarro,  mentioned,  77;  town  of, 
and  library,  77  and  78;  the  people 
and  society  of,  92-94;  convent, 
95  and  96;  Sunday  dinner  at,  97 
and  98. 

Llama,  the,  mentioned,  66  and  67. 

Lopez,  Dictator,  mentioned,  213. 

Loreto,  department  of,  mentioned,  57. 

Lynch,  Almirante,  Chilian  battleship, 
mentioned,  140. 

Macpherson,  officer  in  the  Chilian 
navy,  mentioned,  140. 


Magellan,  the,  steamer,  mentioned,  254. 

Maracaibo,  town  of,  mentioned,  40. 

Marche  du  Temple,  the,  85. 

Matucana,  town  of,  62;  fete  day  at, 
62  and  63. 

Meiggs,  Henry,  his  work  in  South 
America,  59;  switching  device  of, 
61  and  62. 

Meiggs,  mount,  68. 

Mendozians,  the,  conversations  be- 
tween, 200-204. 

Mercurio,  the,  mentioned,  139. 

“ Mercurio,  El,”  newspaper  of  Santiago, 
mentioned,  157;  most  widely 
read,  161  and  162;  mentioned, 
163  and  164. 

Michaelena,  mentioned,  26. 

Mollendo,  inhabitants  of,  72. 

Montes,  President  Ismael,  mentioned, 
131  and  132;  his  review  of  the 
troops  at  Oruro,  133. 

Nabuco,  Senhor  Joachim,  mentioned, 
269. 

Nacion,  La,  story  in,  249-251. 

O’Higgins,  General,  mentioned,  139. 

O’ Higgins,  El  Almirante,  Chilian  bat- 
tleship, mentioned,  139. 

Orinoco  River,  mentioned,  10. 

Oroya  road,  the,  highest  road  in 
the  world;  the  railroad,  men- 
tioned, 183. 

Ortegal,  Cap,  German  boat,  212. 

Oruro,  beginning  of  railroad  to  con- 
nect Peru  and  Argentine  at,  58; 
journalism  at,  127-129;  4th  of 
July  celebration  at,  127-133. 

Pacasmayo,  town  of,  mentioned,  52. 

Paita,  town  of,  mentioned,  52  and  53. 

Pan-American  railroad,  the,  men- 
tioned, 58. 

Panama,  the  canal,  people  there  and 
climate,  44-46;  negroes,  42-44. 

Paraguay,  appendix,  311  and  312. 


319 


INDEX 


Paraiso,  the,  mentioned,  15  and  16. 

Paramillo  de  Las  Vacas,  the,  193. 

“ Patria,  La,”  newspaper  of  Santiago, 
mentioned,  157. 

Pedro,  Dom,  mentioned,  268. 

Pepper,  Chas.,  mentioned,  159. 

Peru,  appendix,  310  and  311. 

Petropolis,  description  of,  282  and 
283. 

“Prensa,  La,”  a paper  of  Lima,  men- 
tioned, 107;  185  and  186;  an  ac- 
count of  Chacabuco  in,  226,  246 
and  247. 

Qtjebrada  Negra,  the,  mentioned, 
64. 

Quito,  ancient,  mentioned,  51. 

Razon,  La,  mentioned,  235. 

" Reforma,  La,”  newspaper  of  Santi- 
ago, mentioned,  157. 

Rimac  Valley,  the,  mentioned,  60. 

Rio,  description  of,  256-258;  popula- 
tion of,  274-276;  national  insti- 
tute at,  269;  Conference,  the,  men- 
tioned, 26. 

Rogers,  officer  in  Chilian  navy,  men- 
tioned, 140. 

Rojas,  mentioned,  26. 

Romero,  Senhor  Sylvio,  a book  by, 
291. 

Root,  the  Hon.  Elihu,  mentioned,  227; 
preparations  made  for  his  coming 
to  Santiago,  227-229;  his  visit  to 
Montevideo,  229-231;  burlesque 
accounts  of  his  reception  in 
Buenos  Aires,  234  and  235;  his 
reception  at  Buenos  Aires,  235 
and  236;  at  Buenos  Aires,  and  his 
welcome,  237-240. 

Rosa  Maria,  La,  mentioned,  54. 

Roto,  the,  his  work  in  the  country, 
147-149. 

Salaverrv,  town  of,  mentioned,  52. 

"Sanchez  Osorio,”  mentioned,  72. 


San  Martin,  General,  mentioned,  5; 
mentioned,  190;  mentioned  in 
“Chacabuco,”  225;  the  theatre 
in  Buenos  Aires,  223. 

Santa  Lucia,  mentioned,  154. 

Santiago,  city  of,  and  inhabitants  of, 
154-156;  its  citizens,  156;  news- 
papers of,  156-158;  theatre  at, 
169  and  170;  school  at,  171,  175. 

Sao  Paulo,  town  of,  mentioned,  210; 
inhabitants  and  plantations  of, 
261  and  262. 

Simpson,  Almirante,  Chilian  battle- 
ship, mentioned,  140. 

Smith,  officer  in  the  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned,  140. 

Sorata,  the,  ship  belonging  to  Pacific 
Steam  Navigation  Co.,  159. 

“Southern  Cross,”  the,  South  Ameri- 
can school  paper,  173  and  174. 

“Sporting  Boy,” — Sporting  editor  “ El 
Mercurio;”  letter  to,  164  and  165. 

Stegomyas,  mentioned,  37,  39. 

Stephens,  officer  in  the  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned,  140. 

Thomson,  officer  in  the  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned,  140. 

Titicaca,  river  of,  106. 

Titicaca,  Lake,  country  around,  112 
and  113. 

Tres  Hennanos,  Los,  54. 

"Tribuno,  El,”  article  appearing  in 
1 19  and  120. 

Tumbez,  town  of,  mentioned,  51. 

Ugarte,  Lieutenant,  his  death  at  the 
battle  of  Arica,  72. 

“Ultimas  Noticias,  Las,”  newspaper, 
mentioned,  157. 

Uruguay,  appendix,  312  and  313. 

Valparaiso,  city  of,  134  and  135; 
nitrate  oficinas  output,  135-137; 
inhabitants  of,  138;  foreign  colo- 
nies at,  139;  fire  department  of, 


320 


INDEX 


Valparaiso — Continued. 

141  and  142;  naval  school  at, 
140  and  141. 

Venezuela,  coast  of,  12;  the  charac- 
teristic traits  of,  17  and  18;  ap- 
pendix, 313  and  314. 

Walker,  officer  in  the  Chilian  navy, 
mentioned,  140. 

Warner,  officer  in  Chilian  navy,  men- 
tioned, 140. 


Wart  Water  Bridge,  the,  mentioned, 
62. 

Wheelwright,  William,  statue  of,  140. 

Wilson,  officer  in  Chilian  navy,  men 
tioned,  140. 

Wood,  officer  in  Chilian  navy,  men- 
tioned, 140. 

“ Zigzag,”  the,  comic  illustrated  pi- 
per, 163. 


321 


